Bitter Sweet
by whatthenesmith
Summary: When Peter is diagnosed with AIDS, his world is turned upside down. Struggling to accept his new situation, Peter learns what true family is as he embarks on this new chapter of his life with his three friends.
1. Chapter 1

Davy was sprawled out on the lounge chair playing checkers with Micky, who had dragged one of the horribly stained yet rather endearing coffee tables over so that they had a surface to set the board on. Peter came out of the bedroom that he and Davy shared buttoning up a floral print button up.

"You two want to come out with me?" Peter asked as he passed by, observing that Micky seemed to be losing the game of checkers by four points to one.

"Where are you going?" Davy took his turn before glancing up at Peter.

"Down to the club. I'll buy drinks," Peter answered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Oh, I'll come!" Micky sprang up from his position on the floor, arms a wild tangle in the air for a moment, "I've been itching to dance for so long."

"Lord, if you're gonna be dancing, I might take a rain check," Davy smirked.

Micky's eyes narrowed at the Englishman.

"What are you trying to imply? That I'm a bad dancer? Me? Micky Dolenz, the world renowned dancer? I mean, David, my title would beg to differ," the drummer hit back with a look so serious, Peter almost burst into a fit of laughter.

"I think your moves speak for themselves," Davy insited.

"I don't think you're a bad dancer, Micky," Peter piped up, pulling Micky closer to him and kissing him on the cheek, "But I wouldn't call you great either."

Micky swatted Peter away as he laughed, scowling, but Peter noted the laughter sparkling in his eyes.

"Oh, you're both such comedians," Micky rolled his eyes and moved towards the spiral staircase that led up to the bedroom that constituted the upstairs of the pad, "I gotta go change my shirt, so don't leave without me."

He sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, passing Mike as he went up.

"Hey, Mike, do you want to come out dancing with us?" Peter asked as the guitarist passed him by, heading for the kitchen area of the pad.

"Nah, I ain't one for dancing really," Michael replied, opening up a cupboard and pulling out a glass.

"Are you sure? Micky and I are going, too. It'll be fun," Davy added, starting to clean up the unfinished game of checkers.

Mike set his glass down on the counter and opened the fridge. Peter knew it was a lost cause to invite Mike along with them to any social outing that wasn't a gig or a friend's house, but it never hurt to try.

"Sure I'm sure," Mike informed Davy, pulling out the carton of apple juice that was half empty, "Besides, I gotta check the papers for another gig and make some calls. We'll half starve if we don't get another gig soon."

It wasn't a lie but it served as the perfect cover. Although, Peter had to admit that he'd rather Mike find another gig than starve or, worse yet, have to find a gig for the gang himself.

"Alright, Mike, well we won't be out too late," Peter said.

Mike turned around, sipping his apple juice before flashing Peter and Davy a wide grin.

"Stay out as late as y'all like," he replied, "Or else you can come home and help me work."

"It's Thursday, I can't possibly work on a Thursday," Davy joked.

"Hmpf, you're tellin' me," Mike rolled his eyes.

"Alright, I'm ready!" Micky suddenly called out as he barreled down the staircase.

"Finally, took you long enough," Davy huffed, pulling on his pair of shoes.

"Oh, come off it, Jones, we all know you take eighty years to get ready," Micky hit back.

"I care about my appearance," shrugged Davy, knowing fully well he couldn't argue with Micky on that point.

"Will you guys stop fighting, I want to get out of here," Peter cut in.

"Sure, babe, if Davy admits surrender," Micky replied.

"Never," Davy grinned as he beelined for the door.

"Good luck with those two, Pete," Mike called after Peter as he followed behind Micky and Davy.

Peter gave Mike a quick wave before darting out the door. The trio decided to walk to the club since it wasn't all that far away. They talked about nothing in particular, with the conversation going from one topic to the next without any specific direction. It was cool outside, with the sun slowly sinking behind the horizon as the darkness of night began to set in. Already, street lamps were turning on and the breeze coming off the ocean was gentle. The walk to the club seemed only a few seconds. Peter could hear the thumping of the music before he spotted the actual building. They entered the building and beelined for drinks, all three of the boys getting a beer only because it was the cheapest option.

Davy grabbed a small table that didn't have any seats and they downed their drinks fairly quickly since Micky was itching to dance. Two of Davy's friends stopped by at the table just as soon as Micky and Peter had finished their drinks, so Davy excused himself to catch up with them.

"C'mon, Peter!" Micky raised his voice in order for Peter to hear him.

Micky grabbed Peter's hand and pulled him out into the middle of the dance floor. It was impossible for Peter to actually hear the music, it was far too loud. It was all pre-recorded music too, which disappointed Peter. There was nothing better than live music, well except playing that live music yourself. Peter watched Micky dance, people edging away from him as soon as they realized his style involved a random assortment of arm movements. A few hours passed, and Peter excused himself to get some water. As he was waiting, someone familiar came up to him.

"Craig!" Peter exclaimed, breaking out into a big grin.

"Peter, long time no see!" Craig mirrored Peter's grin, leaning in to exchange kisses on the cheek with Peter.

"How are you?" Peter asked as the bartender handed him his glass of water.

"I'm great," Craig said, a quick flash of something sad crossing his face, "How are you?"

"A bit tired. Micky's had me dancing all night," Peter admitted, wondering if he had really seen sadness on Craig's face.

"Ah, well, it is late," Craig nodded knowingly, then glanced side to side as if he were checking to see if someone was around, "Say, Peter, you should go visit George tomorrow. He's been meaning to call you up, but you know what a lazy queen George can be."

Peter hadn't thought about George in ages. For a brief moment, Peter almost had to ask Craig who he was talking about. Before AIDS, Peter had been just your average homosexual man, having as many sexual partners as wanted. Peter never thought it undignified to be so loose, but did feel slightly guilty once he and Micky had entered their tentative, open relationship. Like most gay men, Peter typically slept with his friends before they even became friends but Micky and Davy and Mike had all three been different. The friendship had come first, the sex later. All four of them were involved with each other in one way or another, although Davy and Peter did find partners outside of the home along with keeping things between the four of them.

Then when AIDS had hit, Mike had insisted that both Davy and Peter cut back on partners, though this jibe was aimed more at Peter considering Davy's bisexuality meant that a lot of the times he was seeing women when he sought partners outside of the home. Peter didn't mind and eliminated most high risk behaviors from his life, along with making major cutbacks in his sex life. George had been one of those recurrent lovers that Peter had demoted to simply friends during this time of his life, purely because George wasn't all that nice of a guy. Peter liked him, or at least thought he had, until one day George had a go at Davy, claiming that Davy was a disgusting closeted fag who had no business being in a gay club. Peter had lost it at that comment and snapped at George, who hit right back. So why was George all of a sudden wanting to call him up?

"Alright, I will," Peter agreed, a slight sinking feeling washing over him.

"Great! He'll be so pleased to see you," Craig smiled genuinely at Peter, but there it was again, that hint of melancholy.

Peter wondered if perhaps it was just the lighting in the club or if he was really seeing that slight tinge of emotion. Someone came up to Craig then and whispered something into his ear. Craig nodded as the person drew back.

"I've gotta get going, Peter, it was nice seeing you," Craig reached out and gently brushed his hand against Peter's arm.

"Have a nice rest of the night, Craig," Peter bid ado to his friend and watched as Craig and the other man exited the club.

A yawn ripped through Peter then and he knew that Craig wouldn't be the only one heading home. Although typically Peter could match Micky's energy on the dancefloor, it seemed that tonight just wasn't his night and already Peter was bushed. Scanning the dancefloor for Micky's curly mane, Peter made his way over to the table that Davy was still stood at.

"Hey, I think I'm gonna head home," Peter informed the Englishman.

Davy's friends must have left only a little bit before Peter had arrived because the singer looked as if he was just about to set off for the dancefloor.

"Oh, really? Are you feeling alright?" Davy asked, a frown furrowing his bushy eyebrows.

"I'm just feeling really beat, that's all," Peter replied, feeling much older than he actually was.

Usually he could dance the night away just like his friends and feeling this tired, this early made Peter feel like some sort of grandpa. An old timer not meant for

such public scenes such as a dance club. Davy's mouth twitched, a giveaway that the Englishman was suddenly in deep thought.

"Alright, well, do you want me and Micky to walk you home?" Davy questioned.

Peter took another glance at the dance floor and this time pinpointed where Micky was. He wore a big grin on his sweaty face, his hair sticking to his brow. He looked so happy and, Peter thought to himself, quite sexy. Despite the fact that he didn't necessarily want to walk home by himself, Peter knew he didn't have the heart to tear Micky away from the fun.

"I'll be fine, you guys stay. It's not as if I'm dying. I'm just tired," Peter assured Davy.

Davy didn't really seem too convinced but he nodded anyways and moved closer to Peter.

"Be careful then, okay?" he leaned forward and they exchanged a kiss.

Davy tasted of beer and it left Peter with an unpleasant aftertaste. But he'd do anything for Davy.

"I will. Don't let Micky hurt himself out there," Peter chuckled.

"Alright, goodnight, Pete," Davy gave Peter one last smile and a wave before disappearing into the thronging crowd of dancers.

With that, Peter headed back to the pad. It was far too chilly out now that the sun had completely disappeared from the sky, it's replacement the moon doing very little for warmth. Peter shivered and wrapped his arms around himself in a vain attempt to try and warm himself. His thoughts were focused on George and why he wanted to see Peter. In the back of his mind the dreaded 'A' word hung, poised to leap into Peter's thoughts at any moment, but denial was a strong force. It held back such a thought and all Peter could come up with was that George perhaps wanted to rekindle something from the good old days. There were no stars in the sky tonight and Peter walked the rest of the way home in relative quiet, his thoughts cast aside for sheer want of rest. When Peter arrived home, he found Mike sitting on the couch leafing through newspaper ads.

"Did you find anything?" he asked as he came over and sat down next to Mike.

"A few that I'll check out tomorrow," Mike replied, folding up the ads and putting them aside, "Why are you home so early?"

"I'm tired," Peter informed him, feeling suddenly embarrassed for no real reason at all.

"I don't blame you," if Mike noticed Peter's slight flush, he didn't show it, "I couldn't be out at all hours dancing. I'd probably die."

"Oh, bull, you could out dance any of us if you really wanted to," Peter reached a hand out and grabbed Mike's, squeezing gently.

"Thanks," Mike said in a suddenly small voice.

"Can I use the car tomorrow?" Peter asked then, seeing that he might as well get it over with now so he could go to bed.

"Sure, course ya can," Mike confirmed, smiling at Peter, "Just don't be late for practice."

"You know I wouldn't dream of it, babe," Peter leaned in and placed a quick kiss on Mike's cheek.

"I wish things could be different," Mike's voice was barely audible and Peter almost didn't catch what he had said since it had sounded almost like a sigh.

"Hmm?"

Mike suddenly pulled away from Peter and picked the ads back up, opening them almost as if he were going to go through them once more.

"You should get to bed, Pete. Ya need your rest," Mike advised him.

Peter nodded, said goodnight, and went into his room. As soon as his head hit his pillow, he was out like a light. The next morning Peter had made sure to get up earlier than his roommates, early than even Mike, which meant that Peter was almost up before the crack of dawn. Forgoing breakfast, Peter hopped into the car that all four of them shared and headed off to George's home. It was a Victorian styled home a few miles outside of Los Angeles. Having started his journey early, Peter beat a lot of the horrible traffic and made it to George's house under twenty minutes. By that time, the sun had risen into the sky and painted the clouds a wonderful gradient of yellow and orange.

Peter pulled up to the curb and parked, pulling the keys out of the ignition and stepping out of the car. George's house looked just like how Peter remembered it, with it's glossy painted outside and the stone steps leading up to the front door. Taking a deep breath, Peter walked up to the front door and rung the doorbell. While he waited for someone to answer, a thought occurred to Peter. He wondered if perhaps Craig and George were still seeing each other. Maybe that had something to do with why George wanted to see Peter. Before that line of thought could be explored anymore, the door swung open to reveal George. He looked a lot different then Peter remembered him. His eyes had dark rings under them and he looked as if he had lost a lot of weight. But the most striking change Peter noticed, but did not comprehend, were the dark purple spots on George's neck, almost hidden by the shirt he was wearing. As soon as he saw Peter, George's facial expression went from shocked to fearful to angered until finally it settled upon a forced cheerfulness.

"Peter, what are you doing here?" George sounded scared.

"Craig told me to come by," Peter informed him.

"That bastard," George swore, glancing at the ground for a moment before holding the door open wider so that Peter could enter, "Well, you should come sit down if we're going to do this."

Peter had to keep reminding himself to breath and he felt his legs move forward, but he himself was so far away at this point it was almost as if Peter were in some sort of dream. As he made his way into the living room, as he sat down on the couch across from the chair that George sat down in, all he could think about were those purple spots. They could only mean one thing.

"So, um, how are you, Peter? It's been awhile, hasn't it," George's attempt at humor fell flat, if it was humor at all, Peter frankly couldn't tell.

"I…," Peter cleared his throat, focusing his thoughts as best he could, "I've been alright. You?"

There was no doubt in his mind now why George had wanted to see him. Peter saw George almost physically flinch at the question.

"Well… I mean, the lesions are hard to hide, especially when I didn't have a chance to properly cover them up," George sighed, rubbing his hand up and down his leg. A familiar nervous tick. It just made Peter feel as if he were standing atop a high ledge.

"Yeah," Peter had to keep a level head.

"Guess there isn't much point to trying to hide it then," George went on and straightened himself a little more, "I have AIDS."

There it was. The one word Peter never thought he'd hear anyone say to him. Sure, he knew people who had gotten sick and wasted away. This cruel disease made sure no one was left untouched. But never had Peter had one of his closer friends get it. He had been lucky. So very lucky and it was only in this moment that he realized just how lucky he had been. But luck never lasted.

"How long?" Peter swallowed the lump in his throat, hands bunching up the hem of his shirt. He needed to hold onto something before he lost his grip on reality.

"About four weeks now. I was hospitalized for PCP," George replied without hesitation.

"Four weeks?" Peter frowned, figuring he must have misheard George.

"Give or take a day, yes," George nodded.

"You were diagnosed four weeks ago and I'm only hearing about this now?" Peter couldn't wrap his head around this.

Surely George would have told Peter the day he had been given the news. That was how it went. Anyone you had slept with had an immediate right to know about any AIDS diagnosis so that they could get tested right away. That was the protocol, as far as Peter understood it. As far as Peter cared.

"Well, yeah, I'm positive I didn't give anything to you," George shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

A flame of rage threatened to consume Peter at those words.

"You're positive you didn't give me anything? You're a plumber, George, not a doctor. What makes you positive that you didn't give me anything?" Peter snapped.

"I-I know I couldn't have given you anything, Peter, we haven't seen each other in so long," George seemed taken aback by Peter's outburst.

"Everyone knows you tell anyone within the last five years who has been with you," Peter stated, "That's how it goes. Why the fuck am I hearing about this now?"

"Peter, please calm down," the rubbing had turned to scratching, "I… I haven't told anyone but Craig. I don't want anyone to know. I have good faith that you didn't catch anything from me."

Peter looked George dead in the eyes, although it was hard because George kept glancing down at the floor.

"You don't want anyone to know? George, I have a partner. It's not just your life on the line, it's mine and my partner's life on the line. Do you even understand the consequences of what you might have done? If I'm infected and I haven't known I… I could have infected…," Peter broke off, the thought of Micky being infected with AIDS just too much for him to bare at the moment.

"Peter, you don't understand, I know-," George began but Peter cut him off.

"No, George, I think you're the one who doesn't understand," his voice began to rise as he spoke, escalating into a half shout, "How dare you keep this from me! Were you even going to tell me at all?"

George was very quiet and very still in the moment that followed, his eyes avoiding Peter's cold glare.

"I don't know… I honestly don't know… telling you, telling anyone… it just makes this thing feel so real. It makes it feel too real. I… I'm so sorry, Peter, I never meant to hurt you like this," George had begun to cry, the tears dribbling down his chin.

For a moment, Peter's anger subsided, seeing George look so small in that chair, crying as he was. But it was a brief moment. Because the implications of George's diagnosis were still weighing heavy on Peter's mind. He stood up then and George looked up at Peter, a look of pure fear on his face.

"I'm sorry for you, George, I really am, but you had no right to keep this from me. No fucking right," Peter said the words with a restrained tone.

All he wanted to do was cry, kick and scream, shout George's roof down. But Peter kept himself in line. He walked purposefully to the front door. He heard George stand up from his chair and call after Peter, "Where are you going? Peter, I'm so sorry." But Peter didn't look back. He opened the door and left, not even bothering to close the door behind him. He just beelined for his car on the curb. Keys into the ignition. Turn. He pulled away from the curb. Without thinking, he began to head towards the nearest hospital. There were no thoughts that came to Peter then, it was simply drive to the hospital. He felt numb, as if his whole body were shutting down. Everything was in autopilot as the world began to slip away.

The hospital had taken ages. No one had wanted to see him and Peter was eventually directed to a specific AIDS ward three floors up. There he spoke to a nurse named Fiona and she told Peter he could wait in a room that she directed him into. So Peter waited. And waited. An hour later a relatively young, not to mention handsome, man entered the room.

"Are you Peter Tork?" he had asked.

Peter had replied with a yes.

"Great," his smile had been so gentle, so genuine, "I'm Dr. Xavier Cole. I hear you want to be tested?"

Peter had explained his situation to Dr. Cole, who listened attentively. After Peter had finished, the doctor had told Peter that everything would be alright, no matter what the results turned out to be.

"If you're negative, come back 3 months from now and if that tests negative, you're golden," he had told Peter, "And if you aren't negative, then we'll get through it together."

Peter had felt so safe with Dr. Cole. They ran the tests and Peter had some lunch in the hospital canteen, waiting out the results without even thinking about calling Mike or Micky or Davy. The hours had crawled by and Peter kept pacing around the waiting room that he had been demoted to after the tests had been finished. He had already filled out the paperwork to keep himself busy. At around six pm, Dr. Cole had emerged from out of nowhere, like a shadow dissolving from the wall.

"Do you want to sit down?" Dr. Cole had asked.

"Give it to me straight, like a ripping off a band-aid," Peter remembered himself saying.

"You're HIV positive, Peter," Dr. Cole hadn't tried to avoid Peter's gaze nor did he sound condescending or disgusted, "Your CD4 count, which are T helper cells, is right at 215. A CD4 count of 200 or below would mark you with AIDS. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Peter had shook his head, even though he did understand, deep down.

"Well, Peter, your count is close enough to 200 that I'm going to say you should watch your health. I'm going to see about putting you on some medication so I'll be in contact with you soon, a day or two at most. Your viral load, the amount of HIV in your blood, is high as well," Dr. Cole had explained.

"So do I have AIDS or not?" Peter had found himself sounding irritated.

Dr. Cole hadn't seemed to mind.

"Yes, Peter, you have AIDS," everything hadn't spun like Peter had anticipated it to. It had just seemed too unreal at the time.

He had then thanked Dr. Cole who told Peter to keep an eye on his health and report anything unusual, even remotely unusual, when he called with medication recommendations. It hadn't been till the drive home that Peter had begun to cry. Maybe that was why he felt so exhausted by the time he actually made it home. The sun had set and it was so late. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and forget everything that had happened today. As quietly as he could, Peter unlocked the front door and entered the pad. To his surprise he found a light on and the television playing a rerun of _I Love Lucy_. Micky was curled up on the couch watching the rerun, although when Peter entered the pad, he immediately leapt to his feet.

"Peter! You're home! We were all so worried about you!" Micky exclaimed as he scrambled over to Peter, nearly tripping over his own feet.

The numbness Peter had begun to feel was quickly disappearing as the panic of reality crept up on the bassist.

"Micky, what are you doing up? It's late, you should be in bed," Peter found himself saying.

"I was waiting for you," Micky's face was creased with worry, his nose slightly scrunched up like it always was when he was particularly concerned, "Mike and Davy went to bed but I couldn't sleep, not knowing if you were alright or not."

Micky then pulled Peter into a hug and a flare of almost animalistic instinct overtook Peter. He jerked himself backward, away from Micky, whose face twisted with a new bout of worry.

"Don't touch me, Micky," Peter quietly warned, feeling disgusted with himself, as if he were covered in filth.

"What's wrong?" Micky asked, eyes big and round.

"I… Micky…," the words were not coming to Peter.

What could he say? Well, Peter knew exactly what he had to say but he didn't want to. For a moment, Peter understood why George hadn't told him about his diagnosis until today. But at the thought of George, Peter's resolve was restored. He had to tell Micky. Then Mike and Davy tomorrow, along with a few others who could be at risk. He had to tell all of them because they had a right to know that Peter might have given them death. It felt almost as if his feet would at any moment give out on him and leave him to collapse onto the floor. But he forced them to move forward nonetheless and made his way over to the couch, where he lowered himself into a sitting position. All the while, Micky had been following Peter and as soon as Peter sat down, Micky took a seat next to him.

"Peter, what's wrong?" Micky repeated, taking a hold of Peter's hand and squeezing tightly.

Instinctively, Peter squeezed back.

"I went and saw George today," Peter began, figuring that he would start at the beginning of the end, "I went and saw George today and he told me that he had AIDS."

It took far too much effort to utter the A word. By the look on Micky's face just then, in that moment, one might have guessed Peter had slapped him.

"I'm sorry, Peter, that's horrible," Micky said, a quaver to his voice as he spoke.

"Yes," Peter nodded and took a deep breath, clinging to Micky's hand, "And so I went to get tested."

Micky didn't say anything. Peter felt a vast gulf of silence separate them.

"I went and got tested and Dr. Cole, he was so nice, he told me that he'll call me tomorrow or the day after concerning medication," Peter couldn't bare to say that he had it. He couldn't bare to say that he had AIDS to Micky's face.

Again, there was the silence, the vast abyss of silence. Why wasn't Micky saying anything? If Peter wasn't holding his hand, he would have guessed that Micky wasn't even there. But he was. And he wasn't saying anything. The tears came, hot and salty, streaming down his cheeks and dribbling off his chin in that suffocating silence.

"I'm sorry, Micky, I never wanted to hurt you like this," Peter whimpered, his voice sounding so quiet and child like, "George never told me. He didn't tell me till today and the fucker's had it for four weeks. I'm so sorry Micky, you deserved better than me. I should never have even looked at you. Y-you'll have to get tested in case I gave it to you, I'm so sorry, Micky, oh my god."

The silent tears gave out to heaving sobs and Peter doubled over from the force of them. The reality of it all had hit him like a brick wall. How could he have done this to Micky? God, he'd have to tell Davy and Mike in the morning and what would they say? They'd hate him, just like Micky hated him now. As he sobbed, Peter waited for Micky to yell at him. Hit him. Do something to him to express the anger that he surely felt. But none of that ever came. Instead Peter felt Micky pull him into his arms, rubbing his back and holding Peter close to his chest. Peter grabbed onto Micky, burying his face into Micky's chest.

"It's going to be okay, Peter," Micky said, although his voice sounded slightly muffled to Peter, "I'll get tested. No matter what, I'll still love you. And Mike and Davy will get tested. And they will still love you. Don't you ever think that I don't deserve you. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me, Peter. You and Mike and Davy. I would never think that I deserve better than you because you are the best. You didn't know, Peter. It's not your fault that you didn't know. Everything's going to be okay."

The words were a steady rhythm that Peter could almost feel in his heart. Hearing Micky tell him that everything would be alright felt like the weight of the world had lifted from Peter's shoulders, if only for a moment. It brought on another round of tears but eventually they too subsided and Peter pulled away from Micky so that he could look Micky in the eyes. 

"I… I have to make some calls tomorrow. And… I don't know," Peter wasn't sure what to say.

What could he say now that Micky knew? His life had ended. Their life had ended.

"I'll have to leave, maybe go home to Connecticut," Peter continued.

"You aren't going to go anywhere," Micky cut him off then, "We'll… I don't know, we'll have to talk to it over with Mike and Davy but if you want a room to yourself, Davy will just move upstairs with me and Mike. Or hell, Mike and I can move downstairs."

"I don't want to be a burden," Peter admitted, gripping Micky's shoulders as if he were holding on to the last life saver in existence.

"You won't be a burden," Micky assured him and then leaned forward, pressing his lips against Peter's.

A choking sense of fear overtook Peter but he didn't pull away from Micky. How could Micky still kiss him now that he knew Peter carried death inside of him.

"Plus, hell, they say this is the best time to have AIDS," Micky added as he pulled back, his sense of humor creeping back.

"They say that?" Peter arched an eyebrow.

"Yeah, sure they do, all those doctors and stuff. There's, like, lots of medication and treatments and stuff, so you're chances of surviving are a lot higher than the early years, ya know. There's been a lot of advances," Micky was rambling.

He always rambled when he felt scared or vulnerable. Peter rubbed Micky's arm.

"Thank you, Micky," he mumbled before another round of sobs overtook him.

"Hey, hey, don't cry babe, it's going to be okay, I promise," Peter heard Micky tell him.

Micky pulled Peter close again and they both laid down on the couch, Micky wrapping his arms around Peter as they did so. Peter felt him place small kisses onto the back of his neck, murmuring something that Peter didn't quite catch. He was so exhausted and with Micky holding him so close, Peter felt safe. It didn't take him very long to slip off into unconsciousness.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! I hope that you enjoyed this fic, it's been so much fun to write. I'm so proud of this fic and I also hope to impart some knowledge about the AIDS epidemic (in the 80s, not really the 90s). I'm no historian & I didn't live through the 80s, I'm just a high school student with a great interest in this topic. As the tags say, I had all this information about AIDS and the gay community at the time, and this fic just sort of happened. This fic is in no way trying to make light of the AIDS epidemic or HIV. I really hoped you enjoyed and that you have a wonderful day! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Micky woke up and saw that it was still dark outside. The light was still on, as was the television. Peter was gently snoring, pressed up against Micky, safely wrapped in his arms. How could this have happened to him, Micky thought as tears silently slid down his cheeks. In some way, Micky felt horribly guilty for not having protected Peter from this. There was an ache in his chest and his thoughts were all muddled. Had Peter given him AIDS? How were Davy and Mike going to react to Peter's news? Could Micky be there for Peter? Could he make everything alright, like he had promised?

There were so many questions that Micky was asking himself in that moment and he had no way to answer them himself. But there was at least one person in the world who might be able to help him figure this sort of stuff out. With extreme care, Micky got up off from the couch and turned off the TV. Peter was still sleeping soundly. For a moment, Micky wondered what he was dreaming about, if he was dreaming at all. A quick glance at the nearest clock let Micky know that it was 4:30 in the morning. Mike would be up soon, in another hour or so.

Micky scooped Peter up into his arms and carried him into the bedroom that he and Davy shared. Peter wasn't all that heavy but Micky wasn't all that strong, yet nonetheless, he got the job done. As Micky tucked Peter into his bed, he nearly woke up but Micky waited a moment and Peter quickly drifted back to sleep. He must be exhausted after yesterday, Micky thought. It occurred to him then, gazing down at Peter's sleeping form, that Micky probably should be more worried about whether or not Peter had given him AIDS. He knew he should be more worried, knew he should perhaps even harbor hatred towards the blonde bassist.

Yet Micky felt none of this, not even a little bit. Micky had a gut feeling that Peter had not given him AIDS and he couldn't bring himself to hate Peter for getting it. It hadn't been his fault. It was that damn asshole George's fault. Micky knew Peter had done a lot to reduce his risk of getting it and Micky loved Peter too much to hate him for anything. But there was that ache still in Micky's chest, still all of those unanswerable questions running rampant inside of Micky's head. He exited the downstairs bedroom and made his way over to the telephone that was next to the refrigerator. Picking the phone up from its cradle, Micky dialed his sister, Coco. The phone rang on the other line once, twice, four times until someone answered.

"Hello?" the groggy voice of Micky's sister came clear through from the other end of the line.

"Morning, Coco, it's me," Micky greeted.

"Micky? What's wrong? Why are you calling me so early? Do you know what time it is?" his sister responded with a string of questions.

"Yeah, I know what time it is, and I'm sorry to be waking you like this, but I gotta talk to you Coco, I just gotta," Micky informed his sister, "Can I come over?"

There was a moment of silence before Coco said, "Sure, alright. I'll see you soon."

"Thanks, sis," Micky said before he hung up.

Micky pulled on a pair of shoes without socks and grabbed the keys to the car. He went outside to the driveway where the car was parked and clambered in. Pulling out of the driveway, Micky realized he hadn't even changed his clothes from yesterday nor had he taken a shower. But it was too late to do either of those things now. As he drove to his sister's house, which wasn't all that far away from his own home, the tears that Micky hadn't exactly shed in the pad came to him. They all knew someone who had died of AIDS. Micky had attended the funerals of two friends who had died of AIDS only two months prior, with only a week separating them. And now Peter was going to die, wasn't he?

Pulling into his sister's driveway, Micky pulled himself together, wiping away the tears with the back of his hands. He scrambled out of the car and up to the front door, ringing the doorbell. Micky knew that his sister would be able to help him out, even if it was just listening to him and holding him as he cried. Micky had come out as a homosexual to his parents when he was seventeen. Although Peter did live his life as openly gay, he had never told his parents or family. Davy fell into this category as well, with Mike still being in the closest.

Yet Micky regarded his situation as uniquely groovy because four months after Micky had told his parents about his sexuality, his sister had come out as a homosexual as well. Nick, their father, had nearly hit Coco but Micky had stepped in to take the blow. It was after that, immediately after, that their father had begun to cry and had apologized profusely to Micky for hitting him. From then on, Micky and Coco's parents had done their best to accept both of their children and they were doing a pretty spectacular job considering everything. A passing car jolted Micky out of his thoughts and just in time too, because just then Coco opened the door. It was like looking into a mirror, almost. Coco had more delicate facial features then Micky did and, although Coco had short curly brown hair much like Micky did, her hair was slightly smoother.

"Hey, Micky, come on in, I poured some coffee for us and I've got scones," his sister greeted him, leading him into her home and towards the kitchen.

Coco's home always smelled of baking brownies, even when Coco wasn't baking anything at all. Micky couldn't explain why it always smelled of baking brownies, but that's what it always smelled like. And Micky wouldn't lie, he found it such a comforting smell.

"Thanks for having me over so early, Coco," Micky said as he sat down at the kitchen table.

Coco handed him a cup of coffee, black with sugar just how he liked it, and a plate with three orange scones on it. Then she sat down next to him with a cup of her own coffee and a plate of her own orange scones.

"Course, it's no trouble," Coco informed him, taking a sip of her coffee, "You sounded upset over the phone earlier, what's wrong, Mick?"

Micky gazed down into the black depths of his cup, wondering just what he should say. How he should approach this? There wouldn't be any tiptoeing around the subject. Coco would know if he told her a lie. So he'd just have to have it out there, all out and laid on the table.

"It's Peter, Coco," Micky said after a quick gulp of the scalding liquid in his cup, "He has AIDS."

The word AIDS felt heavy and awful in his mouth, like moldy bread or vomit. Tears stung Micky's eyes again, just at the confession of saying that Peter had AIDS. But he didn't cry. Not yet. There was a silence that felt tangible between him and his sister. Micky imagined that if he so desired, he could go fetch a knife from a drawer and cut the silence into slices like fresh baked cherry pie. Micky couldn't even bare to look Coco in the eyes. Instead he just stared intensely into his coffee.

"I'm so sorry, Micky," Coco finally said to him after a moment, despite the fact that the silence felt as if it had lasted for hours, "How bad is it?"

"They, um, I don't know. Peter only told me that the doc said he had AIDS. But he doesn't even seem sick at all," Micky answered, hands clutching the mug in front of him.

"He won't seem sick till he's real sick, Mick, that's just how this disease works," Coco informed him.

Coco had dropped her dream of becoming a singer like her older brother a year or so after AIDS started to spread itself to every gay man in the country in order to be trained as a nurse. She volunteered at hospitals all over Los Angeles in order to help out as many people as she could. Although Micky would never say this to her face, he admired Coco more than anyone else in the world. There was another long stretch of silence after Coco spoke. Micky just didn't know what to say.

"Have you been tested?" once again, Coco broke the silence first.

"No, not yet," Micky admitted, "I'm going to be tested today though."

"Don't tell mom and dad about Peter until you're sure you aren't positive for HIV," Coco advised him, "They're gonna freak when they hear about Peter, but they'll be more supportive if you're not infected."

Micky knew that if his parents found out that Peter gave him AIDS, they'd be likely to kill Peter for 'ruining' their son.

"I know this is going to sound stupid, Coco, but I have this gut feeling that Peter didn't pass it on to me," Micky confessed to his sister.

"That does sound stupid," Coco agreed, "But I know you got a knack for these sort of feelings. Get tested anyways, though, just to make sure."

"Yeah," Micky nodded.

He finally picked up one of the scones on his plate and took a bite. The tangy taste of orange was subtle.

"What sort of meds is Peter on?" Coco questioned.

"Nothing yet, he only just found out yesterday. Said the doc'll be calling him about medication today," Micky replied.

"They'll probably put him on AZT, that's been the best working drug on the market. It's a son of a bitch if you have the dose too high, and the dose always gets too high, but it works pretty well," Coco guessed, finishing off her second scone, "And so, how's he holding up?"

"He's taking it really hard. He cried himself to sleep last night," the tears were pricking Micky's eyes again, "Fuck, Coco, what am I supposed to do? I can't make this better. I can't make _him_ better."

Tears brimmed from his eyes then, he couldn't stop himself.

"Shh, it's okay, Mick, shh," Coco reached a hand over to grab Micky's hand, giving it a comforting squeeze, "First, you're gonna take a deep breath, alright?"

Micky nodded and did as he was told.

"Good, that's good, Micky," Coco grinned broadly, "Okay, so the next thing you're gonna do is get tested. Let's assume that your gut feeling is right, so then you're gonna tell mom and dad about Peter so that they can help you out. You're gonna clean up your house, because germs spell infection and you have to try to keep Peter as healthy as possible. Feed him even if he's not hungry or throws it up immediately after. Peter's gonna lose a lot of weight, wasting syndrome always happens. Take care of yourself and make sure you or Mike or Davy stay away from Peter if any of you guys get sick."

Micky listened patiently to Coco talk, nodding his head occasionally to indicate that he was understanding what his sister was telling him.

"But most of all," Coco continued, "You have to keep living your life, Micky, both of you. All four of you. You can't let AIDS end living, because it's already gonna be robbing Peter of a good chunk of his life. He may beat it, but if he doesn't at least try to live life while he's in the thick of it, hope's already gonna be gone. Don't lose hope."

"I won't let him," Micky promised, a sob nearly overtaking him.

Coco squeezed his hand again, offering Micky a warm smile.

"Small victories, Mick, small victories and take in one day at a time when things get too overwhelming," Coco said gently.

Micky nodded and gulped down the last of his coffee.

"I gotta get home," Micky told Coco as he sat his empty cup down onto the table, "Peter's going to be telling Davy and Mike the news this morning and I want to be there for him."

"Hold on a second, you should bring the rest of the gang some of these scones. You make sure that Peter especially eats them," Coco stood up and quickly grabbed a glass container from a cupboard.

In a matter of minutes, Micky had said goodbye to his sister and was heading back to the pad with a dozen orange scones in the passenger's seat. Everything that Coco had told him had replaced the questions but there was this nagging feeling in the back of his mind. What if his gut feeling was wrong? What if Peter had given him AIDS? As Micky pulled into the driveway of the pad, he decided that it wouldn't matter either way no matter what his test result turned out to be. By the time Micky was reentering the pad, the sun had already risen into the sky and two hours had passed. Once inside, Micky found Davy cooking in the kitchen and the shower was running. Mike was in there, Micky guessed.

"Hey, Micky, where've you been?" Davy asked as he poured pancake batter into a skillet on the stove.

"Oh, I, um, I was just visiting with my sister," Micky replied as he headed for the kitchen table, placing the scones she had given him onto the wooden tabletop, "She even sent me home with some food."

"You were visiting Coco? When did you leave, like five? It's seven now, I didn't think you'd be cable of getting up so early," Davy chuckled.

"Ha, yeah," Micky tried to muster his humorous spirit but there was nothing to draw from.

"Well, we can have pancakes and scones for breakfast then," Davy grinned.

Micky glanced around the pad again, nodding absentmindedly just so that Davy knew he was still listening.

"Is Peter up yet?" he asked.

"Um, I don't think so," replied Davy, "You should go wake him up, the pancakes will be ready any minute now."

The door to the bathroom opened and Mike stepped out fully dressed, dirty PJs bundled in his arms. He headed upstairs to deposit them in a clothes basket that would be taken to the laundromat in two days time. Micky watched him go, nerves suddenly overtaking him.

"Yeah, I'll go wake up Peter," he absentmindedly agreed with Davy and then disappeared into the downstairs bedroom.

Shutting the door behind him, Micky saw that Peter was still sleeping, the covers pulled up to his chin. Micky knelt down beside his bed and shook him.

"Peter, it's time to wake up," Micky said gently.

"Hmm?" Peter cracked his eyes open.

"Morning, sleepy head," Micky offered Peter a small smile.

"Good morning," Peter said as he sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"Davy's making pancakes and we've got some scones," Micky informed the blonde, eying him as he clambered out of bed.

He still didn't look any different, and with a good night's sleep Micky couldn't even tell he had been crying last night. He just looked like normal, everyday Peter. How could he be sick? It seemed impossible. Maybe the doctor who'd tested him yesterday was wrong. Maybe Peter wasn't sick after all.

"Oh, alright," Peter nodded and began undressing, "So him and Mike are up?"

"Yes," Micky answered.

Peter pulled on a flowy white shirt and a pair of jeans.

"I guess this is it then," Peter sighed and Micky saw the defeated look on his face. It just about broke Micky's heart.

All throughout breakfast, Peter was quiet. So was Micky. For some unknown reason, anger boiled underneath Peter's skin at the fact that Micky wasn't trying to put on a smiling face. Davy and Mike obviously noticed something was wrong and Peter couldn't help but blame Micky. It was irrational, but everything felt like it was slowly slipping away. Micky and Mike quickly did the dishes and while this was occurring, Davy cleared his throat.

"Did you guys have a fight or something, you and Micky?" he asked Peter.

A bubble of laughter rose in Peter. Why? He wasn't sure. Peter saw Micky give him a worried look, a look that Peter didn't bother to decode. He couldn't put it off for any longer.

"Yesterday I went to see my friend George and it turns out he has AIDS," Peter began, once again deciding to start from the very beginning, "I got tested."

The only thing Peter could hear after he finished speaking was the running sink water and the pounding of blood in his ears.

"I got tested," he started again, "And the results came back as positive. I…"

But the shaking in his voice cut him off. He needed to compose himself. Eyes fixed to the table in front of him, the only noise that of the sink water and pounding blood, Peter finished his sentence, "I have AIDS."

The tears came again, much like they had last night when he had told Micky. Every so often, Peter would quietly gasp for air as he was attempting to keep himself together. He heard the water shut off and Peter gripped the table. Why wasn't anyone else saying something? Why hadn't Mike or Davy made a comment? Why was it suddenly so silent?

"Fuck, Peter, I'm so sorry," Davy's soft voice finally broke the silence.

Peter felt Davy take a hold of his hands from across the table, giving them a gentle squeeze.

"Why are you sorry?" Mike demanded then, but it was in a very quiet voice.

It caused Peter to look up. Mike was still by the sink, facing the window that was above it. His back was towards Peter and Davy. Micky was giving him an odd look. Davy didn't answer, presumably because he was just as confused as Peter.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Micky asked the collective question that was running through all three Monkees' heads.

"It means Peter got what was comin' to him," Mike explained.

"What?" Peter frowned, the tears momentarily stopping due to confusion.

"I told ya, when this whole fucking thing started, that you needed to quit your fucking around!" Mike shouted then, whirling around to face Peter, "Now God's struck ya with the gay plague because you're an unfaithful faggot. You've probably given it to me and to Micky and Davy. For Christ's sake, Peter, why the fuck would you get it?"

"I didn't fucking chose to get AIDS, Michael!" Peter yelled right back, the tears starting up again at hearing such awful things from such a close friend.

"If you didn't want to get it, you woulda stopped fucking around," Mike insisted.

"Peter didn't fuck around. Shut the hell up!" Micky countered, "Davy sleeps around, too, and you're not yelling at him."

"Yeah, well Davy didn't get AIDS, now did he?" Mike snapped.

"I'm just as much at risk for AIDS as Peter is, Mike," Davy pointed out.

"Well it don't matter now, 'cause we're all going to die thanks to Peter," Mike seethed.

"I'm so sorry, fuck, I'm so sorry," Peter broke down then, the sobs doubling him over, "I never meant for this to happen, I'm so sorry."

Just as Peter glanced up, he saw Micky throw a fist aimed right at Mike's face. It hit a little off target, connecting with Mike's cheek instead of chin, and it sent Mike stumbling backwards.

"Don't you dare say something like that! Just because you're a closeted faggot gives you no right to talk to Peter like that!" Micky shouted.

"Stop it!" Davy exclaimed, quickly leaping from his seat to jam himself in between Mike and Micky just as Mike was readying himself for a counter attack, "Just stop it, both of you!"

Peter felt helpless, useless, and most of all, he felt disgusted with himself.

"Mike's right," he announced to his three friends, his voice cracking, "He's right. I didn't do enough to lower my risks. I… I'll never forgive myself if I passed anything onto any of you."

"It's alright, Peter," Micky assured him then, but it all sounded so fake, "Look, we'll all go down to the hospital and get tested today and we'll go from there."

"I'm sorry," Peter found himself saying once more. It felt as if he couldn't say he was sorry enough.

"If you gave any of us your sickness, I'll never let you live it down," Mike huffed before storming upstairs.

Peter watched Mike go and felt as if every ounce of strength left the room with the Texan. He slumped down in his chair as Micky held Davy as he cried. How had everything fallen apart so quickly? Why was this happening to him? It was all so unfair. The next hour or so felt heavy and blanketed. As if Peter were moving through time while someone else was cutting it in half. He sat in the back with Davy, who clung to Peter's hand as if his life depended on it. Micky drove the car, while Mike sat in the passenger's seat. He didn't even look at Peter, not once.

Dr. Cole and a very kind nurse tested Peter's friends. Mike left the hospital for most of the day while the tests were being ran. Micky and Davy sat in the waiting room, Micky talking on and on about nothing in an attempt to calm Davy's nerves. While all of this went on, Dr. Cole took Peter aside.

"Have you experienced anything unusual, health wise? Such as headaches, vomiting, trouble breathing," he asked.

"No," Peter replied, his whole body feeling numb.

No health troubles, he had only just ruined his friends' lives.

"Alright, well, I'm going to be putting you on AZT at the end of this week. You'll have to stop by to pick up your prescription this Friday morning and it'll be a fairly small dose to start with," Dr. Cole informed Peter.

"Will it help?" Peter asked.

"It's been doing wonders for a lot of patients, but it does have some side effects," Dr. Cole answered.

"Thank you," the word felt disgusting. Peter walked back into the waiting room and sat down next to Davy, who immediately grabbed onto Peter's hand.

By the time the test results had come back, Mike had reappeared from wherever he had gone. All of their tests came back as negative. None of them were HIV positive or diagnosed with AIDS.

"You're all clean," Dr. Cole beamed before excusing himself.

Peter felt so relieved, it was almost dizzying. He watched as Davy hugged Micky before leaping up and hugging Mike.

"Oh, thank god," Micky grinned, "I knew we'd be fine. Just like you'll be, Peter."

Peter felt Micky wrap an arm around his shoulder.

"It don't change what Peter could have done to us," Mike said, "It don't change the fact that Peter asked for this, and if y'all ain't careful, you'll get it too."

"Mike, please, don't be like this," Davy begged.

But Peter didn't blame Mike for his words. In some way, Peter agreed with Mike. He hadn't really tried to get rid of all high risk behaviors out of his life. He hadn't been satisfied with just Micky's partnership. Hell, Peter hadn't even been satisfied with Davy and Mike's partnership on top of Micky's. He had to go out and have his fun. And now here was the consequence. Maybe Peter did deserve this. He was damn lucky that he hadn't infected Micky, let alone the others. Damn lucky.

"It's fine," Peter cut in, before another fight broke out between Mike and Micky, "Mike has a point and he has a right to say whatever he wants."

For the first time since that morning, Mike looked at Peter. Peter avoided Mike's gaze.

"Look, I'll see y'all at home, I'm going out," Mike announced, tossing Micky the keys to the car.

"Where are you going?" Davy asked.

"Out," Mike simply replied before disappearing down the hospital hallway.

Peter looked down at his hands. They felt dirty and bloodied, despite the lack of actual dirt and blood. He must have gone into some sort of daze because the next moment Davy was shaking Peter gently.

"Hey, you alright?" he was asking.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just… was thinking. I'm tired," Peter wasn't entirely sure what to say. He wasn't alright. Nothing was alright.

"I bet," Micky brushed his hand against Peter's arm, "Let's head home. Hospitals give me the creeps."

Peter nodded his agreement and stood up. Both Davy and Micky took a hold of Peter's hands. It was a gesture that Peter hadn't expected but very much appreciated. In that moment, as the three of them walked out of the hospital and towards the car in the parking lot, Peter felt as if maybe this whole situation wouldn't be the end of it all. That perhaps there was a future that he could look forward to, one that didn't involve a fast approaching death.

Mike had called up the only person he could think of who he could talk to right now on a nearby pay-phone. Besides his roommates and an odd triste at the bathhouse now and again, Mike didn't associate with any homosexual aspects of life and these were the only people who knew about Mike's preference. All except one other man. Before moving in with his friends, Mike had temporarily lived with another up and coming country singer named John Denver. He had been a very nice man and a long time ago the two of them had had one special night they called their own. The day after, Mike informed John that he wasn't gay and John had told Mike that it was just fun and there wasn't any harm in what had happened. But he'd keep the night to himself if that was what Mike wanted and of course, that's what Mike wanted.

He couldn't recall what he had said to John over the phone but ten minutes later, John was pulling up to the curb nearby the pay-phone. Mike clambered into the passenger's seat, buckled up, and John began to drive back to his home. For a little while, they just sat in silence. Mike felt so numb, so drained, he wasn't even sure if he could speak.

"What happened?" John finally broke the silence after a solid eleven minutes. He didn't take his eyes off the road.

"Everything's fallen apart, John," Mike's voice cracked as he spoke and tears stung his eyes.

John didn't reply, he merely waited for Mike to go on.

"Peter told us this morning that he has AIDS. I… I said some real nasty things to him, John, ugly things that I ain't never gonna be able to take back. Not ever. All 'cause I was damn scared we was all gonna die thanks to him spreading it to us," Mike did continue after a moment, "He's the only one who's got it though, me and Mick and Davy, we're all clean."

"Did you apologize to Peter?" John wondered. Still, he did not take his eyes off the road.

A wave of regret and embarrassment washed over Mike at that question.

"No, I didn't, but it doesn't matter whether I do or don't. He ain't ever gonna forgive me and I don't blame him one bit," Mike answered after a moment, trying to keep his voice steady but the tears began to stream down his face involuntarily, "I told him that he deserved what he got. I told him to his face that he got what was comin' to him and I ain't ever gonna be able to take that back."

Again, John did not say anything. He took a turn and Mike realized that they were only a few short minutes away from John's house. John waited for Mike to continue, much like before.

"I fucked it all up, all 'cause I was so fucking scared. Too scared to see how Pete's gotta be feeling. I messed it all up, John. Micky even hit me," Mike rested his head on his hands which were on the dashboard, silent sobs causing him to shake slightly.

John pulled into his garage and took the keys out of the ignition.

"Well, I'm certainly not going to say that what you did was in any way really justified. You did deserve a good smack," he began with such a sure voice that Mike lifted his head and wiped the tears and snot from his face, "But I also won't say that I agree with you. People make mistakes, Michael, that's just how life is. And as soon as I drive you home tomorrow, you'll apologize to Peter and I can say with confidence that he will forgive you."

Mike looked at John, trying to pull himself together, back into the stoic man he liked to play when around anyone. But no matter how hard he tried, that man was lost at the moment. Mike's shoulders slumped forward.

"C'mon then, let's go have a drink, Michael," John instructed Mike before clambering out of the car.

Mike did the same and followed John into his kitchen, where he flicked the lights on and opened a cabinet. Mike took a seat at the oak table that dominated the middle of the room and watched as John brought over a bottle of whiskey and two small glasses. Conversation topics seemed lost and, if Mike had to be honest, a pointless farce in light of the matter. John filled both of the small glasses and nudged one over to Mike.

"Thanks," Mike said before tipping the alcohol into his mouth.

It burned yet it felt good. The numbing sensation that Michael had felt since the hospital, perhaps even before then, began to ebb away as the amber liquid worked its way into his body.

"So how bad is Peter's diagnosis?" John asked after a moment as he refilled Mike's glass.

"I… I dunno. He… he doesn't seem sick, not a bit," Mike answered before taking a sip of his replenished drink.

"Michael, you gotta be there for him," John said as he nursed his own drink.

There was a flash of anger that bolted through Mike. What was John trying to get at?

"Of course I'll be there for him," Mike snapped, "I love… him."

Mike's words trailed off as he realized what he was saying. Every time he was with another man or even remotely allowed himself to entertain the idea of loving another man, there was a knee jerk reaction in which Michael scolded himself for ever allowing those sort of thoughts to enter his mind.

"I know you do, Michael, but you gotta realize that Peter can't have Michael Nesmith, southern bible preacher, screamin' in his face about how God's cutting him down for liking cock," John pointed out, "He needs Michael Nesmith, the kind and gentle man, who isn't afraid to stand by his partner proudly, without guilt or fear, 'sides the fear of his partner dying."

Mike knocked back the rest of his drink and glowered into the empty glass. Of course John was right. It wasn't as if this whole hellish ordeal was asking him to come out of the closet completely, but it was asking him to do more than repent for his sins. It was asking him to try harder to accept himself as he was, or at least that was how Mike was interpreting all of this. With a heavy sigh, Mike took the bottle of whiskey and poured himself a third glass.

"How do you do it, John?" Mike asked.

"Do what?" John frowned.

"You still dating that brunette?" Mike queried.

"Ya, but Annie and I've only seen each other twice now," answered John.

"Well… how do you do that? You've been with men before and then women, I just… Davy's the same puzzling complication too. How can anyone love men and women, let alone just loving men?" Mike hit back his third drink.

John refilled his glass, despite the fact that it wasn't all that empty.

"You worry too much about what other people think, how they view you. It don't matter what anyone else thinks, as long as you're happy," he said after a moment.

Mike rubbed his temples, shutting his eyes as tightly as he possibly could. The guilt over what he had said to Peter was gnawing happily away at him. He felt John take a firm grip on one of his hands.

"Michael, I know you're scared. But everything's going to be okay," John murmured, "You gotta believe that."

The house seemed oddly silent and Mike wondered how he was still breathing, his chest felt so constricted for no legitimate reason. He opened his eyes to look at John. A strand of his dirty brown hair was flopped in front of his face and he looked just as young as when Mike had first met him, despite the sizeable long stretch of years since their first encounter had occurred.

"How can it be okay, John? He's gonna die an' there's nothin' I can do about it," the words were uttered in barely a whisper, Mike just couldn't bring himself to speak any louder.

"Nah," John gave Mike a half smile and a shake of his head, "Peter'll be alright, you'll see. And you're gonna be there for him the whole time. You, Davy, and Micky. All four of ya will be alright."

John moved closer to Mike, placing an arm around his shoulder and leaning in close, mouth almost brushing against Mike's cheek.

"And I'll be there for you the whole way. It'll be alright, Michael, don't you worry," John told Mike firmly, "You'll see."

Mike felt his heart sped up, his pulse elevating, as John leaned in just a little more closer and pressed his lips against Mike's cheek. Turning his head a fraction of an inch, Mike kissed John back.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! Again, this fic is not trying to make light of AIDS and I'd also like to say that I am by no means a historian or a doctor, so if there are any medical inaccuracies throughout this chapter and future chapters, I apologize. I did my best to be as accurate as a high school student can be. Feel free to leave a review or a favorite, both are very much appreciated. And again, thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, another one is on it's way. Have a wonderful day!


	3. Chapter 3

The next day was Thursday. One more day till he would receive his medication. Peter pulled the blanket over his head and breathed in the hot air that always accumulated after one has pulled a blanket up over their head. All he wanted to do was hide there, underneath the cover, hide from all of the pain. Mike hadn't come home last night and Peter felt horribly guilty. What if something had happened to him? What is someone had shot him or hit him with a car, all because he just so happened to be out walking that night due to Peter's diagnosis.

Davy had assured him last night that Mike would be fine, that he was probably just out somewhere blowing off steam and he'd slink through the pad door in the morning just as grumpy as he had been when he had left the hospital. Peter was skeptical but all he wanted was Mike home, safe and sound. For what seemed like hours, Peter stayed underneath the blanket, hardly moving. He might have even dozed off a little, but Peter couldn't be sure. After a little while, he heard the door to the bedroom open and someone entered.

"Time to wake up, sleepyhead!" Micky's voice rang out, a sickening cheerfulness to his tone, "We've got a big day for you, Peter, Davy and I have a lot planned. For one thing, you and me are going to go visit with my sister and then we'll go pick up some groceries, anything you like. Lots of soup, too. And juice. And food. And then we'll take a long walk on the beach, like we always do sometimes, and then we'll stop to get some ice cream before walking home, maybe. If you're up for it."

Peter lowered the cover from his face by an inch. He saw that Micky was riffling through his drawer, attempting to find him something to wear for the day.

"Where'll Davy be?" he asked.

Micky paused for a moment before turning around and throwing a grey, loose fit t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans onto Peter's bed.

"He'll be cleaning," Micky replied, "Now get dressed, we've gotta head over to Coco's."

Peter pulled himself reluctantly out of bed and began dressing himself.

"Why is he gonna be cleaning?" Peter wondered as he pulled on the t-shirt.

"Because the morning after you told me about… it, I talked to Coco," Micky began, but Peter interrupted him.

"Coco knows?" he frowned.

Micky's foot tapped gently against the floor and his eyes averted Peter's gaze.

"Well, yes, she does, but she's fine with it. She's a nurse, she wants to help you and me and stuff," Micky answered after a brief stretch of silence.

"Why did you tell her?" Peter wanted to know.

He felt so hurt, so betrayed. How could Micky tell someone about his diagnosis without his permission? It felt like some sort of unspoken violation. Micky's shoulders slumped forward and he looked so defeated.

"I was so scared, so overwhelmed, when you told me Peter. I… I had to talk to someone and you hadn't told Davy or Mike yet, so who else could I have told, ya know? She's my sister. We share everything with one another. If any of her partners had gotten AIDS, she would have told me," Micky explained.

Peter fumbled with the button of his jeans, mulling over what Micky had said. It made sense. He knew that Micky and Coco were very close, both of them being gay and very forward with their orientation. Peter had always admired and liked Coco, even going as far as to decide that if he ever had to be with a woman, he'd want it to be her. And it was true, if anyone knew anything about AIDS it would be Coco. She had given up so much to help a lot of gay men.

"I understand, Mick, I'm glad she knows," Peter informed Micky after a minute or so had passed.

Micky looked up at Peter, a surprised look in his eye.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yeah," Peter nodded, then his brows knitted together, "But I don't understand about what telling Coco has to do with Davy cleaning."

"Well the morning I talked to her, she said that we should clean house to cut back on germs and help to minimize the risk of those germs making you sick, now that you have a weaker immune system and all," Micky clarified.

Peter nodded but didn't say anything in return. He hadn't thought about other infections creeping into his body and how susceptible he'd be to them now that his immune system was practically destroyed. A simple cold would no longer hold the same weight that it had in the past. A simple cold nowadays could prove to be fatal to Peter. It was yet another reminder of how different things would have to be now that the A-bomb had been dropped.

"So Davy will clean up and make everything all sterile to keep you fit. And we'll both cook you good food to fill you up and make you feel good," Micky beamed at Peter and Peter couldn't help but mimic the smile, despite how hollow the action seemed.

"Thanks, Micky," Peter mumbled, despite the fact that he didn't feel very thankful.

"Don't mention it, babe, I'm here for you, whatever you need, you just holler at me and I'll come running," Micky stated before swinging open the bedroom door, "Now, we gotta hop in the car and get to my sister's, or else she'll wring my neck like a chicken."

Peter rolled his eyes at that comment but neglected to say anything. He followed Micky outside, saying goodbye to Davy on their way out. The duo hopped into the car, with Micky driving. The drive to Coco's house was not long at all and soon Peter found himself sitting down on a sofa in Coco's living room, a cup of tea in hand.

"I didn't know we were British, sis," Micky commented as Coco handed him his own cup of tea.

"Oh, stuff it, Micky," Coco rolled her eyes before sitting down across from him and Peter in a chair.

"Thank you very much, Coco," Peter said before taking a sip of the hot liquid.

There was a slight pain that Peter felt in his throat as the tea went down. Perhaps it was too hot. He blew gently on the drink.

"It's no trouble at all, Peter," Coco grinned, "It's been a little while since I've had guests over for any sort of reason, so it's good to have someone over to make tea for."

"I just wish you had more to eat than biscuits, and not the good biscuits either," Micky grumbled, though the joke seemed to fall slightly flat in his tone of voice.

Peter noticed that Micky kept glancing at him and it was starting to slightly bother Peter. Why did Micky keep giving him sidelong glances? He took another sip of the tea, figuring that he'd probably blown on it enough to make it relatively cool, at least cool enough to drink. As he swallowed, Peter experienced the same pain as last time.

"Wow, this is certainly some hot tea," Peter commented, putting his tea down onto a side table.

"Is it too hot? I can put maybe an ice cube in it or something to try and cool it down?" Coco offered, placing her own cup of tea off to the side in order to get ready to go fetch Peter an ice cube.

"Oh no, it's alright, I'll just let it cool down," Peter waved a dismissive hand at Coco, not wanting her to get up yet again to get him something.

"Are you sure? It'd just take a moment," Coco was already getting up.

"I'm sure, it's fine," Peter assured her.

Coco looked conflicted for a moment but eventually she sat back down, picking up her cup of tea and taking a sip. The backs of Peter's knees felt sweaty and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was thanks to the jeans, but Peter wasn't too convinced. He was too nervous. He didn't want to be treated any different. On some level, Peter wanted everyone to pretend that he didn't have AIDS. He wanted everyone to look the other way and act as if everything was completely normal, that nothing had changed in the past two days. But at the same time, Peter knew that nothing would ever be or feel the same again. The reality of that had been shattered the moment Peter had arrived on George's front porch and had seen those damn purple lesions on George's skin.

"So, Peter, what medication did they put you on?" Coco asked after a while of meandering conversation between mostly herself and Micky.

"Um, AZT, but I won't start anything till tomorrow," Peter answered.

"That's fairly typical. AZT has done a good job at helping prolong life in a lot of patients," Coco said, sounding so clinical Peter almost flinched.

"But it isn't a cure," Peter found himself say, a bitter edge to his voice.

"Yeah, but medicine is so advanced now. I'm sure in like a month or something, they'll have a cure for AIDS, hell, maybe even cancer. You never know," Micky pointed out but his words fell short in Peter's opinion.

"I wouldn't hope for that much, Micky," Coco told her brother, "There's a lot of red tape surrounding research on drugs for AIDS, I mean for the longest time AZT wasn't even made available to the public. A lot of guys I know have had to create this whole underground drug network in order to get anything that will help, even remotely. And even then, the side effects of the drugs can be just as devastating as the infections."

"Coco, stop it, you'll scare him," Micky snapped.

"I'm not scared," Peter hit back, sizing Micky up as he spoke, feeling like a small child proclaiming that his fear of the dark was gone despite knowing fully well that he'd sooner piss his pants that be submerged into total darkness, "Are there alot of side effects for AZT?"

Coco looked from Micky to Peter, an unknown look on her face.

"The most common side effects of AZT are nausea, vomiting, headache, dizziness, fatigue, weakness, and muscle pain. But it all depends on the dosage you're being given. If it's too high, they'll have to take you off it to fix the damage," Coco answered after an agonizing minute or so.

"But the doctor won't give you a high dosage. He'll give you the right amount, 'cause he knows what he's doing," Micky tried to reassure Peter.

"I wouldn't say that," Coco advised, "A lot of doctors and nurses, even the veterans, they're all still trying to figure out how to best treat this son of a bitch. Even if Peter's doctor does get the right dosage the first time, if any infection comes along, the dosage might have to be altered, or there's always the possibility that one day the AZT will just stop working."

There was a long stretch of silence after that. Peter could tell Micky was angry but holding himself in check all because Peter was there. Peter could tell that Coco felt that she was right in what she had said, and had no regrets despite knowing that she had offended her brother. Peter was glad that Coco had been straight with him. No babying. Treating him just like a normal human being. He was upset that Micky didn't want him to be "scared". The silence continued to stretch on and on and Peter couldn't take it anymore.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Peter announced, standing up and walking out of the room.

It took him a minute to find the bathroom and he didn't actually have to go so he looked at himself in the mirror. He still didn't look sick. Peter still looked like regular old Peter, but he knew it wasn't true. Deep down, he felt disgusted with himself. Here he was, in such a nice young woman's home, sitting in her living room. And just being here felt as if he would somehow contaminate everything around him. It wasn't true of course. Back in '84, there was a huge debate upon whether or not AIDS could be spread through casual touch but the CDC quickly put to rest that dragon. Still, sometimes people continued to cling to that thought process. Peter turned on the sink and washed his hands. Then he went back to the living.

As he approached, he paused in the hallway. Micky and Coco were arguing.

"He isn't a baby, Micky, you can't treat him like that and you know it," Coco was saying.

"I'm not treating him like a baby! You can't fill his head with all this bullshit about things not working and the medicine not working. I've seen how this stuff gets into people's heads and messes with it. Breaks down their spirit. Peter hasn't even been sick yet," Micky countered.

"Oh, you've seen this stuff?" Coco scoffed, "You haven't seen the worst of it, Micky, trust me."

"How bad does it get?" it was a challenge, Peter could tell.

"I've seen very intelligent men reduced to nothing but a drooling mess. And I've seen people go blind from CMV," Coco responded, "That could very well happen to Peter."

"Shut up," Micky snapped.

"You asked," Coco said.

Silence.

"I'm sorry," Micky mumbled, "I'm just scared. I don't know how to help him. I want something to happen, now, so it can be out of the way."

"It's okay," Coco said, "I'm sorry, too. I should have maybe held back some things. Just take things one day at a time. Enjoy the time you spend with him now, while he's still healthy. You never know when the first infection may hit."

"Will it hit?" Micky asked.

"Yes," Peter imagined Coco nodding, "Sooner or later, you gotta know it will, Micky."

"I've seen so many people die from this," it sounded as if Micky were crying, "I can't see him die, too, Coco, I just can't."

"Don't think about that until later on down the road, if that even has to be thought about at all," Coco advised.

The conversation lulled then and Peter realized he was shaking. Weak knees, sweaty palms. He felt sort of hot. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was something else. He entered the living room and sat down.

"So what have you two got planned for the rest of the day?" the conversation returned to more normal things.

Peter let Micky and Coco talk. He picked up his abandoned tea and took a sip. It was lukewarm at this point yet it still hurt going down his throat. There was a particular thought floating in the back of his mind, threatening to enter his primary thoughts at any moment. Peter couldn't quite pin it down, however, and so forgot about it. He wished that he had taken up Coco on that ice earlier. Maybe the optimum temperature of the tea had passed and that was why it was causing slight pain. It was ridiculous. But Peter didn't care. What would be the alternative?

After their visit with Coco had come to its end, Micky and Peter headed over to the grocery store to pick up stuff. Micky grabbed a cart and began walking through the aisles, Peter following him. It wasn't all that crowded in the store but it was most definitely not empty either. They passed by a frazzled looking woman who had three kids hanging onto her legs. She seemed to be trying to get them to get off her so she could move around the store unhindered. Briefly, Peter wondered how the woman could do it, day in and day out. Taking care of another human being who was more or less wholly dependent on you seemed so difficult.

"Alright," Micky's voice derailed Peter's train of thought, "So, we need some bread and milk. We're gonna get orange juice and you can get whatever other kind of juice you want, Peter. We need to get lots of soup, eggs, some ground beef, some pasta, rice, a big jar of peanut butter, a couple of bags of peas, some fruit and some vegetables. If you want something, just put it into the cart."

Peter nodded to signal to Micky that he understood. They went through the store, aisle by aisle, picking up what they needed to pick up and then some. For the most part, Micky and Peter shopped in silence, although Peter noticed that Micky did talk the whole time. The only reason Peter regarded it as silent between them was due to the fact that Micky was just rambling. His words had no real meaning behind them and they were, more or less, only there to serve as Micky's comfort blanket. Most of what Micky said were disconjointed and slap-dashed together. But Peter listened to him and did chime in every now and then in order to make sure Micky knew Peter was listening to him despite everything.

An hour and a half passed before they were loading quite a lot of grocery bags into the car. Micky had insisted they buy a heavy bit of junk food along with bulky protein foods such as nuts and the like. Although Micky never said it outright, Peter guessed that Coco had advised him to begin planning on changing Peter's diet. Along with getting horribly sick, AIDS also marked a change in diet as most men wasted away into nothing. It was important to maintain weight and Coco must have dropped the hint to Micky to start planning. There was a conflicting bolt of dual emotion inside of Peter as he clambered into the passenger's side, waiting for Micky to return from putting the cart back into the store.

On one hand, Peter felt a warmth spreading through his chest. It was sweet of Micky to be going so far already to help Peter. But on the other hand, Peter wanted desperately to cling onto the dignity of not needing such help, especially when he didn't feel at all sick. He knew that it was a ridiculous thing to think. Micky was helping him out of love and all Peter should feel was gratitude that Micky had taken this whole thing so well. It was irrational to feel a frustrated anger towards Micky for doing what he was doing for Peter. Yet there it was. The ride back to the pad was quieter than Peter would have liked but at the same time he was grateful for a moment of peace. Still, there was something tugging at Peter's conscious, something that didn't have to do with Micky or anyone else for that matter. There was something wrong with himself. It had to do with his difficulty swallowing. Or maybe it didn't. The nagging feeling flitted out of his mental reach as Micky pulled up into the driveway.

Together, they bundled all of the grocery bags into their home. Inside, it was the cleanest Peter had ever seen the place. The smell of antiseptics and glass cleaner permeated the air and Davy paused, putting down a bucket full of soapy water.

"Oh, you two are back sooner then I thought you'd be," he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, well, you've been pretty busy," Micky observed as he headed into the kitchen and began to put away the groceries.

Peter followed him, placing his bags onto the counter and helping Micky put away.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?" Peter asked.

"Nah," Davy shook his head, "I got it all under control. But, you could maybe take Micky for a walk on the beach so that he isn't around to get in my way."

Davy gave Peter a wink. Despite the fact that Peter's mixed emotions were back again, he smiled. Davy's charm had always seemed to enamor Peter, no matter what the situation was.

"Alright, that sounds like something I can do," Peter agreed.

"You make it sound like I'm some sort of dog," Micky cut in.

"Well, aren't you?" Davy teased.

"Just because I bark, doesn't make me a dog," Micky hit back, throwing in a little woof for added measure.

Peter rolled his eyes, laughing as he finished putting away his half of the groceries, telling Micky, "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"I haven't a clue," Micky pretended to flip his hair behind him before he slotted the last few items they had bought at the store in their proper places.

Peter gave it all a once over. It was the fullest he'd ever seen their kitchen, considering most of time the gang just made do with what they could buy on a two day basis. Today, however, the cupboards were bursting with boxes and cans and the like. It made Peter shiver. But it also warmed his heart. He grabbed Micky's hand in his and pulled Micky towards the back porch, where a set of stairs lead down to their beach access.

"C'mon, let's go take a walk!" Peter exclaimed, feeling for the first time since his diagnosis an honest slice of happiness.

They bounded down the stairs together, hand in hand. Once they got to the bottom of the stairs, they removed their shoes and Peter couldn't help but give Micky a kiss on the cheek as soon as their bare feet hit the warm sand. Without a word, hands still clutched together, they headed to the space where the ocean waves lapped at the shore. For a moment they walked in silence.

"Thanks, Micky," Peter eventually said, eyes trained on Micky as if this would be the last time he'd ever see him.

"For what?" Micky frowned, kicking a mixture of sand and water into the air.

"For being here for me," Peter clarified, "I mean, not once did you get mad at me, even when you had every right to. I… I love you. I'm sorry this all had to happen."

Micky kicked some more of the sandy water mixture into the air as they continued to walk forward.

"It's not your fault, Peter. I love you, and I'm going to be here for you through all of this. You're gonna make it, you'll see. Sure, you won't live to one hundred like you would have, but you aren't gonna die any time soon," he said after a little while.

"You think I would've lived to one hundred? That's ridiculous," Peter chuckled at that thought.

"Well, I think you'll live forever," Micky shrugged.

Peter squeezed his hand.

"You're too sweet," Peter murmured.

The conversation lulled into a silence for a few minutes.

"Micky?" Peter piped up.

"Yeah?"

"Are you scared?" Peter asked.

Micky stopped walking and turned so that he was facing the ocean. Waves lapped at his feet, causing them to sink into the sand.

"I'm not scared for myself," Micky replied finally, "But I am scared for you."

"I'm scared for me, too," Peter agreed.

"You'll be alright. We're in this together," Peter could tell that Micky was almost at a loss for words.

"I know, and I'm very grateful for that," Peter informed him, "But it's also alright to be scared. Davy's scared. Mike's scared. That's why he said all those nasty things to me. "

"That bastard," Micky swore, his body tensing up.

"Mike didn't do anything wrong. He's just scared. Hell, I'm scared and I said the same things to myself that he said to me," Peter admitted.

"You shouldn't think those sort of things," Micky mumbled, yanking his feet out of the sandy depths that they had sunken to.

"It's hard not to," Peter said.

"I'd never forgive him, if I were you," said Micky.

"Well, you aren't me," said Peter.

A relatively large wave crashed upon the shore and tickled Peter's toes. He noticed a sand crab not too far away from where they stood.

"It'll be okay, Micky," Peter continued after a moment, "Two days from now, tops, I'll be on some medicine, and I'll be on the road to healthy living. Like you said, it's a great time…"

But Peter couldn't finish it. He couldn't bare to mention AIDS, not right now. There was a pain in his throat. Tears pricked Peter's eyes. Micky pulled Peter into a hug, squeezing Peter tightly against his chest.

"I know it'll be okay, Peter," Micky said, his voice rumbling in his rib cage.

They stood their like that, in each other's embrace, for god knew how long. It felt like ages before they pulled apart and absentmindedly began walking back to the pad, hands still glued together.

"I think I'll write a song about all of this," Peter told Micky as they reached the stairs that lead back up to their home.

"That's a good idea," Micky commented, pulling on his shoes as he did so.

"You think so?" Peter put on his shoes and began walking up the stairs.

"Yeah, I do," Micky nodded, following Peter up.

They entered the pad to find Davy and Mike at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in front of both men. Peter saw that Mike was wearing a new shirt, a shirt that wasn't his, and he looked absolutely horrible, as if he hadn't slept well last night. His eyes were bloodshot and he had his head in his hands.

"-is to be forgiven, even though I ain't got a right to ask," Mike was saying.

"Oh-ho," Micky huffed, hands going to his hips as he puffed his chest out, "Look who came crawling home."

It was a move that Peter rarely saw Micky do. It was an attempt to seem much bigger than Micky was, a fighting stance. Typically, Micky only ever made this move when he was nearly black out drunk at the clubs and got it into his head that he wanted to fight someone. And even that in itself was a rarity.

"Micky, quit it," Davy said.

Mike wiped his cheeks with the palms of his hands as he turned towards Peter and Micky.

"No, I'm not gonna quit it, David, Mike has to apologize for what he said to Peter because-," Micky began but Peter cut him off.

"Really, let Mike speak for himself. Okay, Micky?"

Peter gave Micky a long look, a hand going out to gently rub his arm. Micky looked between Peter and Mike before his shoulders slouched and he stalked over towards the fridge. Peter watched him for a moment before turning to look at Mike. Davy stood up and wandered into the living room area, an attempt to give Peter and Mike some privacy, or at least that's what Peter assumed. Mike cleared his throat.

"I… I'm sorry, Peter, I had no right to say to you what I said. I know that I can't ever take those things back and I know I ain't got any right to ask you to forgive me, but you gotta know that I'm truly, deeply sorry for what I did," Mike hardly paused as he talked and Peter could hear the shake in his voice.

He looked so defeated and it made Peter feel uncomfortable, because that wasn't Mike. Michael Nesmith was a strong leader, who had nearly an infinite amount of answers to any sort of question. Peter walked over to the kitchen table and sat down next to Mike. The whole time, Mike didn't once look in Peter's direct. He just stared down at the wooden table top, wringing his hands underneath the table.

"It's okay, Mike," Peter said after he had sat down.

Mike looked up then, right into Peter's eyes. A frown creased his brow. Peter reached over and took Mike's hand into his. There was a slight tremor in his friend's hand and so Peter squeezed, trying to tell Mike that everything would be fine and that everything was forgiven, all through that simple action.

"I forgive you, Mike. I… I understand where you were coming from," Peter continued, knowing that Mike probably needed to hear Peter say that.

Mike's gaze fell back to the table.

"I don't deserve your forgiveness, Pete," Mike nearly whispered.

"Nonsense," Peter said, "I love you, Mike. You were just scared."

There was a pause. Peter could feel Davy and Micky's eyes on the two of them. Part of Peter wished that the other two were gone. It would probably be easier on Mike and it would make Peter feel better as well. Right now he felt as if this whole exchange was on some sort of public display.

"I'm so sorry, Peter," Mike whispered again and scooted his chair closer to Peter's.

It was as Mike leaned himself against his chest that Peter realized Mike was crying. His damp cheek pressed against Peter's chest, arms wrapping themselves around Peter's neck. Peter embraced Mike, gently rubbing his back.

"I don't want you to die," Mike said, though Peter felt it moreso than he heard it.

"It's going to be okay," Peter assured Mike, despite the fact that he felt like such a dirty liar.

"Yeah, we're gonna get through this," Davy agreed, the smaller man joining in on the hug.

There was a brief moment in which Peter feared that Micky wouldn't join them in this haphazard group hug but then he felt a fourth person join in. They stood their together, silently clinging to each other for around three minutes. Then they pulled away from each other, although Peter held fast to Mike's hand. Davy smoothed out his shirt before placing his hands on his hips.

"Alright then, the house is all cleaned, we've squared away any awkward tension, I think it's time I get cracking at dinner," he announced, moving towards the kitchen.

"You're going to cook dinner?" Micky shook his head, his joke clearly weak.

"I could cook it," Peter offered, a sly smile on his face.

"That'd be the death of us all, wouldn't it," Davy chuckled, opening up the cupboards and taking out a pot and placing it onto the stove.

As Davy cooked dinner, a meal consisting of chicken and rice, the rest of the gang watched some television. There wasn't much on, or at least Peter didn't find what was on very interesting. By the time that Davy had finished cooking and they had all sat down to eat, Peter's head was pounding. It felt as if a wasp had burrowed into his head and was stinging his skull in a vain attempt to get out. Peter ate some of his chicken but it was proving difficult. Everytime he swallowed, it hurt. There was something wrong, the little voice inside his head kept telling him. This wasn't normal and it had only gotten worse throughout the day. A deep sense of panic began to set in and Peter suddenly felt very scared.

"Hey, Peter, you alright?" Micky asked.

"Do you want something else to eat?" Davy offered.

Peter looked up at his friends and realized that they must sense what he was feeling. For a moment, he wanted to disappear, to just completely be invisible. Why? He wasn't entirely sure, but the moment was brief and he took a deep breath.

"There's…. There's something wrong, I-I, there's something wrong," Peter said.

"What's wrong, Peter?" Davy frowned.

"Do you feel like you're going to be sick?" Micky chimed in.

"No," Peter shook his head, "I… my throat hurts and my head hurts."

Mike, who was sitting next to Peter at the table, reached a hand up to Peter's forehead.

"He's got a fever," he announced.

That wasn't good at all.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! Once again, I'd like to point out that I'm not a doctor or a historian, I am just a high school student who did their best research wise with this fic. I'm very proud of this fic and I hope you all enjoyed this update. Look forward to another one soon. Feel free to leave a favorite and/or a comment. And I hope you have a wonderful rest of your day.


	4. Chapter 4

Davy drove them to the hospital. Micky had sat in the back with Peter, while Mike sat shotgun. The drive was one filled with fearful tension, so much so that it felt like years. As they walked into the hospital, Mike went up to the front desk and asked for Dr. Cole. Micky held onto Peter's hand tightly. Davy held Peter's other hand, although Micky couldn't tell if he was holding on tightly or not. Mike came back to them and said that they had to go up to the AIDS ward, and that Dr. Cole would be up there, waiting for them. So they went up to the AIDS ward and sure enough, there was Dr. Cole. He greeted the four of them with a smile and Micky couldn't help but feel angry at that. How could he smile at them like that when Peter might be dying?

"Evening, guys, what seems to be the problem?" Dr. Cole asked.

"Go on, Peter," Davy gently urged Peter.

Peter, in a voice that Micky found oddly calm, explained what he was feeling, about the fever, and added that he knew something was wrong. The whole time, Dr. Cole nodded his head and when Peter had finished, he rubbed at his chin.

"Okie dokie, Peter, come with me and let's figure out what's going on," Dr. Cole sounded as if nothing at all was wrong.

Micky didn't want to let go of Peter's hand but Peter let go and followed Dr. Cole down the hallway, leaving Micky, Davy, and Mike in the small waiting area.

"Micky, let's sit down," Davy suggested.

Micky did as Davy told him to and sat down. But he wasn't really thinking about his two friends right now. All he could think about was how Peter had gotten sick. Hadn't he gotten sick all too quickly? Why hadn't this Dr. Cole checked Peter for any illnesses when he got tested?

"He's gonna be alright, Mick, you'll see," Micky heard Mike say in an attempt to comfort Micky.

He's going to be alright. Micky let that thought stay in his mind for a moment. Then he noticed that he was holding hands with two other people, despite the fact that Peter wasn't around. Davy and Mike both had a hold of Micky's hands. Giving them both a squeeze, Micky took a deep breath in and a deep breath out. Peter would be alright, and all four of them were in this together. After a while, Dr. Cole reemerged from wherever he had taken Peter. Micky stood up, letting go of both Mike and Davy's hands'.

"Is he going to be okay?" Micky demanded to know.

He felt Davy come to his side, taking his hand again, despite the fact that Micky felt so far away in this moment that he barely noticed Davy.

"Well, it could be worse news," Dr. Cole said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his blue scrubs, "Peter has thrush. It's spread from the esophagus into his lungs. I'm putting him on some antifungal medication and I also want him to stay here until the thrush clears up 'cause his CD4 count has dropped dramatically since the last time he saw me and his viral load is much higher than I'd like it to be."

"What about the AZT?" Micky asked.

"I can't put Peter on any other sort of medication until the thrush has cleared up," Dr. Cole shook his head, "But as soon as it's gone, granting that Peter doesn't have any other sort of opportunistic infection, I'll put him on a regimen of AZT."

Micky looked down at the tiled floor. All of this felt like a bad dream and he couldn't help but wonder how it was all feeling to Peter. Did it feel like a never ending nightmare? Did it feel just as horrible to Peter as it did to Micky? Was it worse?

"How did Peter get thrush?" Micky heard Davy ask.

"I wouldn't think that this is anyone's fault, so don't go blaming yourself about anything. Frankly, I'm guessing that the infection has been incubating for a little while and if Peter hadn't found out that he had been exposed to AIDS, the thrush probably would have brought him in and tipped us off to his condition," Dr. Cole answered.

"So, he'll be alright?" Mike wanted to know.

"We'll have to see," Dr. Cole replied, "Do the three of you all want to stay in Peter's room for the night?"

"Is that allowed?" Mike asked.

"Sure, I'll have a nurse bring in a cot and some blankets. There's also a chair that one of you can sleep in. Sorry we can't give you two cots," Micky noticed that Dr. Cole kept giving the three of them small smiles.

But why? What was there to smile about? Micky looked at Davy. He had a pained expression, the same sort of expression he had worn the day that a jagged sharp seashell had cut his foot. Micky then looked at Mike. He stood in stony silence, his face nearly a mask of indistinguishable emotion. But Micky could tell that Mike was trying to put on a brave face.

"That'd be great, sir, thank you," Mike said.

"You alright, babe?" Davy whispered.

Micky blinked, glancing over at the smaller man.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Micky impulsively answered.

"Sure?" Davy pressed, "Because you don't have to be fine."

"I'm fine," Micky insisted.

"Alright, just follow me," Dr. Cole clapped his hands together and turned around.

The three lovers followed Dr. Cole down the corridor, turned the corner, and walked down another hallway. Once they reached room 146, Dr. Cole stopped and opened the door. Inside, Micky saw that Peter was lying on a hospital bed, the covers pulled up to his chest. He was wearing a hospital gown and it appeared that he was asleep.

"The nurse'll be by soon with that cot," Dr. Cole reminded them before he left them in the room alone.

Micky went over to the hospital bed, taking Peter's hand into his. His cheeks seemed to be wet. Micky felt something hit the back of his knees and he looked behind him to see that Davy had brought over the chair.

"Here, babe, sit down," Davy said.

"Oh," Micky sat down, "Thank you."

"Pete, you awake?" Mike asked.

"Hmm?" Peter cracked his eyes open and sat up a little, "Oh, hey guys. Sorry, I guess I fell asleep."

"That's alright, it's pretty late anyways," Davy faked a yawn, although Micky couldn't actually tell whether it was really fake or not.

"Did Dr. Cole tell you about it then?" Peter wondered.

"Yeah, he did. It's gonna be alright, ain't it," Mike informed Peter, giving him a small smile.

"As soon as the thrush clears up, Dr. Cole says he'll put you on AZT," Micky added, still clinging onto Peter's hand.

This was far too much, like a nightmare. A nightmare. The word bounced around inside of Micky's head. But Micky knew that it was worse for Peter. All that truly mattered was Peter. He wondered what George was doing right now. Micky knew he shouldn't hold it against George for infecting Peter, but at the same time Micky hated that bastard. It was his fault that Peter was in this situation right now and he hadn't even bothered to tell Peter without pressure from Craig. If Micky ever saw the son of a bitch, he'd punch him. Even if he was dying of AIDS too. Just then the door to the room opened and a brunette woman entered, wheeling in a cot that had two blankets on top of it.

"Hello, boys," the nurse greeted as she set up the cot at the foot of Peter's hospital bed. It left enough room for people to move on by.

"Hi," Davy said, taking a moment to look at the nurse's name tag, "Cindy. Thanks for setting that up."

Micky glared at Davy, hearing the flirtatious tone of his voice and wanting to give Davy a good kick. Micky watched as Cindy arched an eyebrow as she finished setting up the cot. She looked at Mike, Micky, and Peter and Micky realized that Cindy was probably trying to figure out if Davy was gay or not.

"Oh, you're welcome," Cindy replied.

The joke, of course, was on her. Davy was neither gay nor straight. The small man labeled himself bisexual. But how could he flirt at a time like this?

"I'm Davy," Davy introduced himself.

Micky felt Peter pry his hand out of Micky's grasp and watched as Peter sat up a little, picking up the pillow that was on his bed and throwing it at Davy.

"Down boy," Peter chuckled.

Cindy laughed at that and left, leaving Davy to glare at Peter, his cheeks a flushed red, although Micky knew that there was no malice behind that glare.

"C'mon, Peter, don't ruin my chances with the nurse," Davy jokingly argued as he returned Peter's pillow to him.

"No way does she think you're straight," Peter countered, "You're here with three men, one of which is dying of the gay plague, need I remind you. She probably thinks that you're just some sad old queen."

"I'm not old," Davy protested.

"Ya, you are," Mike chimed in. Micky noticed that he was doing his best not to smile.

"I'm the youngest of all four of us!" Davy crossed his arms over his chest.

"So you admit that you're a sad queen?" Peter arched an eyebrow.

All three of them were laughing then, sharing in on their little joke, but Micky couldn't bring himself to laugh. How could he when Peter had brought up the gay plague? How could they all joke and laugh while Peter was basically dying?

"You alright, Micky?" Micky found Peter asking him.

"Yeah, I'm fine, baby," Micky replied, not wanting to worry Peter.

It wasn't a lie. Micky was alright. He wasn't the one with AIDS, after all. But he wanted to talk to Coco. He saw Peter yawning and decided that it was time to get everyone to bed. And it seemed that he wasn't the only one thinking the same thing.

"So, who wants the bed and who'll be on the chair?" Mike asked.

"I'll take the chair," Micky announced.

"You sure, Micky?" Davy asked.

"Yeah, I've gotta make a call anyways," Micky assured him.

"Alright, then me and Davy will sleep on the cot," Mike said as he clambered into the cot.

"I love you all, thank you for staying here with me," Peter settled down into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin.

"We're going to be right here for you, Peter," Davy patted the end of Peter's bed, as he settled down next to Mike.

As they all exchanged their goodnights, Micky got up and entered the hallway. He headed back to the waiting area and looked around. There seemed to be no one but then Micky went down a different hallway and spied a nurse. Wanting to be polite, Micky bid the nurse good evening before asking where the pay phones were located. She told him that they were near the cafeteria and went on to explain how to get to the cafeteria. Micky thanked her and headed for his intended destination. It seemed weird to be in the hospital so late. The whole place seemed empty and Micky felt as if that was appropriate, considering that at least right now Micky himself felt empty.

If he was smart, he'd turn around and just go back to the hospital room where the others were and try to get some sleep. He needed some sleep. He'd stayed up late two nights in a row and had gotten up early two days in a row as well. All in all, Micky was absolutely exhausted. But here he found himself, slotting a quarter into the pay phone that was bolted to the wall of the hospital and dialing his sister's phone number. It rang twice before someone picked up.

"Hello, this is Coco's place, who's calling?" an unfamiliar female voice responded.

"Uh, hi," Micky was a little caught off guard, "This is Micky, Coco's brother. Is she home?"

"Oh, Micky! Sorry, this is Beth, Coco's just brushing her teeth, hold on and I'll go get her," there was a lot of strange noises that Micky assumed were just this Beth character getting Coco for him.

He wondered who this Beth chick was and why she was answering Coco's phone so late. But then again, he thought, why was he calling Coco so late in the first place.

"Micky? Is everything okay?" Coco's voice broke through from the other end of the line finally.

"Not really, sis," Micky admitted, "Peter's in the hospital for thrush. They're not gonna put him on any medication until the thrush clears up, or something."

"Oh," Coco's voice sounded oddly far away, "I'm so sorry. Are you at UCLA?"

"Yeah," Micky answered.

"I'll come visit you guys tomorrow then," Coco informed him.

"Alright," Micky said.

There was a moment of silence and Micky watched as a white coated doctor strolled down the hallway he was in.

"Micky, are you still there?" Coco asked.

"What?" Micky reflexively asked, forgetting for a moment that he was talking on the phone with Coco, "Oh, yes, I'm still here."

"You sound tired. Do you wanna go to bed, maybe?" Coco suggested.

She sounded worried and Micky didn't blame her. Why was he even calling her right now? He knew the answer. It was because he needed a moment to escape before he had to sleep. Just one moment away from everything and the only person he found that could give what he wanted, what he needed, was Coco.

"Not yet. I just… How was your day?" Micky asked.

"Um… it was alright. I did some volunteering and then I went to the animal shelter with Carol because she's looking to get a dog. There were so many cute dogs there. One of them reminded me of you, actually. And so after the shelter, I did some shopping, nothing special, and then I met up with Beth. That was it, really. Nothing special," as his sister spoke, Micky pictured each task in his head, and it brought him some sense of normalcy.

"D'ya mind if I ask what Beth's doing answering your phone so late?" Micky wondered after she had finished up.

"She's just staying the night," Micky could almost hear the casual shrug in Coco's voice.

"Staying the night like a lover would?" Micky teased, a small smile dominating his face.

"Oh, stuff it, mister. That's none of your business," Coco snapped, but he could hear in her tone that she was taking his question with the humourous intent it had.

"I get it. Your in love and you don't want your big brother to embarrass you," Micky chuckled, forgetting for a moment that he was even in a hospital.

"You're ridiculous, you know that," Micky heard the roll of her eyes in the way she was talking, "But I love you anyways."

"I love you, too, Coco," Micky said.

"Well, then go to bed, okay? You need your sleep," Coco instructed him.

"Alright, but only so you can get back to whatever it is lesbians do when they're in love," Micky couldn't help but fit in one more jab at his sister.

"Goodnight, Micky," Coco sighed.

"Night, Coco," Micky then hung up the phone, leaning forward and resting his head against the backing of the pay phone for a moment.

The question of why was this all happening to him and the person he loved most in the whole wide universe kept circling around in his head. Coco ran no real risk of contracting AIDS, nor did any of her partners. For a moment, he cursed his sister and wished that all of this was happening to her and her partner instead of him and his. But the moment passed and Micky instantly regretted thinking those thoughts. He wouldn't wish this scenario onto anyone else, especially his beloved little sister, and he knew that he was not the only gay upset and angry at fate. Yawning, Micky forced his legs to carry him back to the hospital room. Inside, he found Mike and Davy curled up together on the cot at the bottom of Peter's bed. In the murky darkness of the room, Micky found it oddly strange to see them embracing one another in their sleep, especially Mike.

Feeling so exhausted, Micky slumped down into the chair that was still right next to Peter's bed. Peter was snoring softly and Micky yearned to take him back home and put him where he belonged. Peter didn't belong here, in this oddly sterile otherworldly planet. He belonged back at the pad, in his own bedroom and bed. All four of them didn't belong here. All four of them should be back in the pad. As if none of this was happening, just like how it used to be. Micky leaned his head back, tears streaking down his cheeks. Sitting their for a long while, all Micky did was cry quietly, so as not to wake up his friends. He cried and cried, until he eventually fell asleep.

The fact that Micky had baked a chocolate cake all by himself and then proceeded to frantically sanitize every inch of the pad was just proof to Mike that Micky was taking Peter's arrival home from the hospital after two weeks a bit too seriously. They had all helped to sterilize the house early that morning, just before Davy had taken the car to pick up Peter, who would be coming home for the first time in what felt like forever, and this time he'd be bringing back medication that would hopefully help him. But when Mike came in from a walk on the beach later in the afternoon, he found a freshly baked cake sitting on the kitchen table that read 'Welcome Home' in red frosting and Micky on his knees, scrubbing the floor for a second time that day.

"What are ya doing?" Mike asked as he put his shoes into the closet.

"Getting ready," came Micky's reply.

"We're all ready, Mick, just put away the cleaning supplies, and I'll dry up the floor," Mike said gently, grabbing a dish towel from a drawer.

"Peter'll be home any minute, it all has to be clean," Micky insisted, still scrubbing away at the floor.

Mike knelt down next to him and wrestled the sponge out of Micky's hands.

"Micky, me, you, and Davy already cleaned and disinfected everything in the pad this morning. Everything's clean," Mike reminded him.

For a moment Micky stared blankly at Mike and Mike wondered what was going on instead of Micky's head. For the two weeks that Peter had been in the hospital, Micky hadn't once left the building, and had stopped eating breakfast and lunch. Today marked Micky's first time home in two weeks as much as it marked Peter's. But then Micky stood up and Mike watched him go before drying up the area that Micky had gotten wet.

"You're right," said Micky as he moved the cake he had baked closer to the middle of the kitchen table, "Everything's clean. Now we just need to figure out what we should eat for dinner. What do you think Peter will want?"

"Why don't we let him pick when he gets here, yeah?" Mike suggested.

"Sure, yeah, that sounds fine," Micky moved the cake's position again.

Mike went to him then and wrapped his long arms around the curly haired man. It was an action that frankly made Mike uncomfortable but he knew that Micky needed something to ground him a little. And, deep down, Mike was proud that he had managed to make himself hug Micky at all. It was a sign that he was slowly, but surely, starting to accept himself as he was.

"Look, Mick, everything's gonna be fine, alright? Don't worry," Mike told Micky, pulling the drummer closer to him.

Then the front door to the pad opened and in walked Davy and Peter. Peter looked paler than he had before and he also looked a little thinner. But it was still good to see him finally home. Mike felt Micky launched himself out of his arms and watched as Micky threw his arms wide open as if to tell Peter this was it. He was finally home.

"Welcome home, Peter!" Micky exclaimed, "I'm so glad you're out of that place."

"Welcome home, Pete," Mike smiled as Peter came over to Micky and hugged him.

"Thanks, guys," Peter said.

"Look, we baked you a cake," Micky pointed to the cake on the table, "And what do you want for dinner? We'll have anything you like."

"Um, well, anything's fine," Peter's eyes shifted from Micky to around the room, "I don't care what we have. Anything will be good. I'm going to go lay down now, just for a bit."

Mike could tell the smile Peter was giving them was a forced one.

"That's alright, ain't it, Micky?" Mike said.

"Yeah, I'm gonna start making dinner anyways," Micky nodded before hurrying over to the kitchen area.

Peter beelined for the downstairs bedroom, shutting the door behind him as he entered. Mike then looked at Davy.

"How'd it go at the hospital?" Mike asked.

"It went alright," Davy replied, "Dr. Cole gave us a bottle of AZT pills for Peter to take twice a day. He gave him one of them at the hospital. If they don't seem to be working, we're supposed to give them to him three times a day, and then if we think the dose is too high, we have to call Dr. Cole."

"How'll we know if the dose is too high?" Mike wondered.

"If the side effects get really bad," Davy answered.

"What are the side effects?" Mike felt like he didn't really want to know.

"If I'm remembering correctly, Dr. Cole said that the side effects are nausea, vomiting, headache, dizziness, fatigue, weakness, and muscle pain," Davy quickly listed them off.

"Do you think that the AZT will really help him?" Mike asked.

He wasn't even entirely sure why he asked. There was a slight, bubbling anger deep down in Mike that he was doing his best to keep suppressed. A large part of him wanted to go to that damned Dr. Cole and hit him until he found a cure for Peter. But violence wasn't the answer in this situation. At least not towards the doctor that was only trying to help Peter.

"I hope so," Davy replied.

But that answer wasn't very good. And Mike didn't want to hope right now.

"Would it be alright if I went out?" Mike turned to Davy to study his face.

The Englishman frowned, a puzzled look overcoming his face.

"Sure, but where are you gonna go?" Davy wanted to know.

"I'm just going out, that's all, just to get out," Mike shrugged, "I won't be out all night, just probably out late."

Mike saw Davy cast a glance towards the downstairs bedroom, then towards the kitchen.

"No one's going to stop a grown man from going out," Davy said, but there was a tone to his voice that Mike hadn't really heard before.

But it was a yes to his answer in a very roundabout way and Michael wasn't going to stick around for Micky to protest to his decision.

"Thanks, Davy," Mike said before grabbing his shoes from the closet and bolting out the door.

It was six thirty and Mike didn't need the car for where he was going. A short, fifteen minute walk later and Mike went up to the nearest pay phone. He put in a quarter and dialed John's number. It occurred to Mike that maybe John wasn't home but as soon as Mike thought about this, John picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, John, do you wanna grab a drink?" Mike asked.

"It's only six, Michael, and on a Thursday at that," John stated.

Mike could imagine John's face then. A slight furrow of his brows, but nothing that would overtly give away his real emotions.

"Who cares? It's close enough to eight. Just… do you want to come get a drink with me?" Mike repeated, feeling a little frustrated.

There was a moment of silence.

"I'll come pick you up in-," John began to say but Mike interrupted him.

"No, I'm already at the bar. It's our usual spot."

"Is everything alright, Michael?" John asked.

"I just want to have a drink with you," Mike replied, "I'll see you at the bar."

Then Mike hung up. As soon as he put the phone back, as soon as he ended the call, he regretted his actions. How could he have just hung up on John like that? But Mike would see him soon enough and he'd have a chance to apologize. He was self aware of the fact that his thought process was riddled with holes yet he was powerless to change his attitude. A voice in the back of his head was urging him to just go home, call John and tell him to forget about it. But it was too late now. No turning back. Mike crossed the street then, took a left, and was at the bar. Walking in, Mike saw a band setting up on a stage in the back. Seeing three guys setting up reminded Mike of his own friends and he quickly averted his gaze, opting to beeline for the counter. Taking a seat, Mike ordered a beer. The bartender provided him one and Mike took a long drink from the bottle.

It had been a long two weeks and for the first time in what felt like forever, Mike felt normal. There was no shift at the hospital to worry about, Micky wasn't anywhere in sight to fret about this aspect or that minor thing, and in this bar there was no looming, unspoken tension. Mike knew it was a tension created by the fact that he and his friends all knew that they might not have much time left to spend with Peter. It was unspoken because none of them wanted to acknowledge that part of it all. Peter was better after all. He was on AZT after all. He was home after all. But what could stop the inevitable? Mike ordered another drink. And then another. Mike wanted to get drunk and he knew that beer wouldn't cut it so he ordered a double shot.

Downing that, he ordered another. Then another. The more he drank, the more he thought. If he could only find out where that George fellow's house was, Mike could go over there and teach the guy a lesson. How dare he ruin Peter's life. How dare he ruin Mike's life. A woman at the end of the counter caught Mike's eye. She had long hair, the color being either brown or black but Mike couldn't tell in the lightning, and was wearing a flowing top. A man was talking with her and Mike watched as he leaned in and kissed her. He ordered another shot. As the alcohol seeped into his system, the anger he had pushed down inside of himself was rising to the top. Another shot. Mike looked around the bar. Despite John's earlier protest, the place was pretty packed. The band had just started to play. There was a group of five men who were sitting at a table near the bar area. Mike watched them laughing together.

Those men would never have to deal with what Mike was dealing with, let alone what Peter was going through. Each one of them probably would be happy to beat up a homosexual. Mike would be happy to beat one up, too. And he hated himself for that. Every time he truly thought about how he was, he felt disgusted. He felt that his body had betrayed him. Growing up, Mike had never thought about sex or girls or boys. He knew he'd get married eventually and have kids only because he knew that was what his aunt Kate would want. But looking back, Mike knew that his younger self had no real desire to get married. Then, at the age of seventeen, Mike had been hanging out with his friends Sandie and Ben in his bedroom and Ben had left to use the bathroom. Sandie had turned to Mike then and leaned forward, pressing her mouth against Mike's. It had been the first time Mike had ever kissed someone and despite the fact that he only thought of Sandie as a friend, he and she began to date. But when Sandie wanted to have sex, Mike felt nothing. Sandie wouldn't be the last girl Mike dated but she was the only girl who Mike would disappoint.

Mike's thoughts returned to the present then because one of the men stood up and walked over to the bar counter. He watched as the man ordered a drink. The bartender handed the man his drink and Mike stood up quickly, pretending as if he had to use the restroom in the back. The man's path and his path collided a second later. The man's drink fell from his hand, plummeting to the floor and shattering into large pieces of glass. The man looked down at the shards and then up to Mike.

"Hey, what the hell, man?" the guy exclaimed.

"Watch where you're going," Mike replied in the gruffest voice he could muster, unfazed by the look in the man's eyes.

"You ran into me!" the man protested.

Mike simply shrugged. He saw the man tense up and was shortly shoved backwards. By this point, his friends were picking up on the fact that their friend was probably about to get into a scuffle and the bartender was also keeping an eye on the situation.

"I don't think I like your attitude," the man warned.

"You don't look so pretty yourself," Mike hit back, unsure of what he really meant by that but said it anyways.

Then it came. A fist, connecting easily to Mike's jaw. It was square in the face. It hurt like hell. It felt good. Mike wasn't entirely sure why. The moment he was hit, he realized that he hadn't really come here for a brawl. Or even to hit someone himself. All he wanted was this punch to the face. Maybe more would be nice, really a good beating, but Mike would also be satisfied with this punch. Because he couldn't exactly beat himself up.

"That all ya got?" Mike smirked, throwing his arms wide open.

The man's friends shouted something and Mike distantly heard the bartender bark out a few words, but none of that really mattered because the man threw another punch. This time it landed in Mike's stomach, doubling him over after knocking the wind out of him. Mike wanted to laugh but there wasn't enough air in his lungs to do so. The man punched him again, hitting his face for a second time. Then Mike was aware that someone was pulling him away from the man. The man's friends were also there, one of them pushing the man away from Mike.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry, my friend ain't in the right head," Mike heard the voice of an angel say behind him.

It was John who was speaking, who was dragging him away from the man. He was speaking to the bartender, who had come from behind the counter to break up the fight or threaten them or something. Mike wasn't really sure. He was only just getting air back into his lungs, each breath a fiery sort of one.

"Well, get him the hell home," the bartender advised, eying Mike for a moment, "And don't let him drive."

Mike watched as the man stalked back to his table with his friends, felt John pulling him towards the exit.

"You hit like a faggot!" Mike hollered to the man just as John managed to drag Mike out of the front door, depriving Mike of any satisfactory conclusion to how the man had reacted to his comment.

Nonetheless, Mike, having finally gotten enough air back into his lungs, began to laugh. His comment couldn't have been more funny, since Mike was a homosexual. He was a faggot! Mike could hit just like that man, maybe even harder, and Mike was a faggot. It was hilarious! Everyone was probably thinking that comment had been an insult when in fact, how could it be? Mike hugged his sides, doubling over from laughing. God, it was hilarious! You hit like a faggot. It was the best joke ever. God, he was so drunk!

"What the hell do you think yer doin'?" John's demanding tone caught Mike's attention.

He glanced up and saw John standing there and he realized how handsome John was. Who would have guessed a guy like John Denver would have been so handsome? His sandy blonde hair, slightly wavy, fell just right to fit his face perfectly and his eyes held a kind warmth inside of them. Mike nearly felt the urge to cry at how beautiful John was.

"You know, John, you're so beautiful," Mike whispered, leaning in real close to John's face.

"What?" John quickly pulled away from Mike, leaving Mike to nearly fall flat on his face.

"You're beautiful," Mike repeated, then laughed a little before correcting himself, "Well, I guess _handsome_ is what you wanna hear."

John's brows furrowed together and Mike almost thought he looked mad. But how could someone so pretty ever be mad? Jesus, he was drunk. Or maybe, as an afterthought, John looked uncomfortable, not mad. How the hell was Mike supposed to know? He was drunk.

"Michael, I'm taking you home," John stated, taking a hold of Mike's arm and marching him to his car.

John opened the passenger's side door for Mike and helped him in. Was John angry? Was he uncomfortable? Upset? It was hard to tell when the world kept spinning just a little. How much had he had to drink? Mike wasn't sure and kept wondering just how drunk he was. Probably a lot but he also felt that this was such a wonderful journey. John clambered into the driver's side and started up the car.

"John, John, d'ya know that I'm gay?" Mike asked, his voice low and hushed, almost as if Mike was divulging his plans to murder someone.

He felt giddy. Or was that even the right word? He'd use it anyways. He felt giddy because he just called himself gay. He had never used that to describe himself. Not out loud at least. But he just did. It felt great! He wanted to repeat it.

"I ain't never seen you so drunk, Michael," John replied, pulling onto the street.

"Are we going home to your house?" Mike asked, excitement rushing into his chest.

"I'm taking you home," John replied, then added, "Why're you so drunk?"

Mike didn't answer and instead looked out the window for a moment but the way everything seemed to just buzz right on by made him feel queasy so he turned back to looking at John. It was the better option anyhow, since John was just so damn beautiful. Like a painting. Or better. What was better than a painting?

"Can't we go to your place anyways?" Mike wondered.

"No," John replied, "I think it'd be best for you to just sleep in your own bed tonight, sleep it off, ya know."

They lulled into silence. Mike was happy to just sit there in his seat and look at John. How had he never noticed how pretty John was? Or maybe he had noticed but never had the guts to admit it to himself.

"Why the hell were you antagonizing that fella anyways, Michael?" John asked after a moment.

"I wanted it," Mike shrugged, "I drank and got hit and you came and saved me. You're my hero, John Denver."

"That fella was ready to really hurt you, Michael, why'd you want to get all beat up?" John wondered.

"Peter's gone and gotten all sick an' I needed a escape, just an ole escape, that's all," Mike went on, slurring a few of his words together.

"That don't mean you gotta go and do what you did. All you'd had to do was call me up, we coulda talked," John said.

"I'm sorry, John. I don't mean to be like this," Mike said after a moment.

Mike wasn't sure if he was apologizing for wanting to get into a fight or if it was because he was gay.

"It ain't your fault, Michael, you just gotta little confused," John replied.

"Sure," Mike agreed, "But that don't mean I'm lyin' or confused when I call ya pretty."

"You don't mean that. You're just drunk," John repeated.

"I do mean it. You're the prettiest man alive and I…," Mike stopped himself then.

He wasn't drunk enough to tell John that he loved him. Mike wasn't sure if he could even get drunk enough to admit to John that he loved him.

"You're drunk," John repeated, "Just… stop before you say somethin' you might regret."

Why was John shutting Mike down? Was it wrong for Mike to tell John that he was pretty? Mike looked down at his own hands in the semi-darkness of the car. John wasn't ready to accept himself yet. Hell, Mike was barely ready to accept himself but he was going to be damned if he didn't. Mike noticed that John was pulling into the driveway of the pad. He put the car into park.

"You're home," John said, "And it's time for you to get into bed."

Mike unbuckled himself and turned to face John.

"I ain't nothing to you, aren't I," Mike stated.

A pained look flashed across John's face then. He reached out a hand and brushed his fingers against Mike's cheek. It stung a little from what Mike assumed would be a bruise.

"You're something," John replied, "I'd never say you're nothing."

"D'ya remember when we first met? I thought you were the prettiest boy I'd ever known from the moment I saw you," Mike admitted.

"Michael, promise me you won't get this drunk again and won't go trying to start any more fights," John pleaded, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Do you think I'm pretty, John?" Mike asked.

There was the longest silence that Mike had ever experienced. Then he saw John's mouth twitch into a smile.

"Course you are," he whispered, in a voice that was barely audible.

Then John's hand fell away from Mike's cheek.

"Michael, I know you're in a bad place tonight, but just sleep it off, okay? And please, promise me you won't get this drunk ever again," John reiterated.

Mike looked at John and he could see John was torn about something.

"I promise I won't get this drunk ever again," Mike caved in.

"And that you won't get into any more fights," John continued.

"And that I won't get into any more fights," Mike agreed.

Tears stung Mike's eyes and he wasn't even sure why. He took a shaky breath, leaned over and kissed John on the cheek. John returned the kiss after a moment before unbuckling himself.

"I'll walk you to the door," John said as he got out of the car.

"No, no you don't have to," Mike shook his head, feeling for the first time that night that perhaps getting drunk and fighting hadn't been the best idea, and for this he started to feel ashamed.

Embarrassed even. How could he let beautiful John see him like this. But John opened up the passenger's side door, unbuckled Mike, and helped him out of the car.

"Yeah, I gotta. Make sure you make it into the house instead of wanderin' off, trying to start another fight," John said as he helped Mike to the front door.

Mike couldn't tell if John was joking or not but he started to laugh anyways. He opened up the front door and then John pulled him into a brief hug.

"Michael, you're everything to me, okay. I just… don't like seeing you like this. Next time you… got something on your mind, you just call me up and we'll talk," John whispered into Mike's ear.

The tone of his voice made Mike feel odd. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made him long for something that he felt he could never have. Then they parted. John smiled softly at Mike and Mike returned the smile.

"Good night, Michael," John said.

"Night, John," said Mike.

And with that John walked back to his car. He looked back over his shoulder at Mike and Mike wondered what John was thinking. But how could he know? Mike was drunk, not telepathic. The thought of telepathy then made Mike giggle as he entered his home. Upon entering, Mike paused to look at the downstairs bedroom door. It was dark in the pad and so Mike could only just make out the door, but he knew it was there. As he stood there, staring at the door, something awful and hollow was trying to wheedle its way into his stomach. Mike walked up the spiral stairs and entered the upstairs bedroom that consisted of the second floor. It baffled Mike how the pad was laid out but his thoughts on architecture were cut short when Mike saw Micky. Micky was sitting in his bed with his bedside lamp on. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his head buried in his arms. By the way his shoulders were shaking Mike could tell Micky was crying. As Mike shut the door, Micky looked up.

"Shit, man, are you okay? What happened to your face?" Micky asked, a hand wiping away the tears on his cheeks.

Mike brought a hand up to his face, gently brushing the tips of his fingers over where he assumed the bruising would be.

"Oh, uh, yeah, some guy… hit me. It's fine," Mike explained.

"Hit you?" Micky frowned.

"Yeah, but it was all my fault, and John brought me home, it ain't nothing really," Mike shrugged, "Won't be nothing but bruising, anyways."

Micky's eyes narrowed as, Mike assumed, he observed Mike's face.

"Looks like it, but I'd still ice it a little in the morning," Micky suggested, using the back of his hands to wipe away the last of the tears.

Mike came over and sat down on Micky's bed. Maybe seeing Micky crying had sobered him up a little or maybe he was still just as drunk as ever, but either way Mike felt that it was only right to see if Micky was alright. Mike's face hardly mattered. Getting hit had helped him really, helped him to realign how he was thinking and all that. Or whatever bullshit Mike wanted to say about it. Really, it was a relief. A bubble had burst inside him when he had been hit and now he felt better. He knew he could handle Peter, his illness, and anything his other two friends threw at him. And now maybe he could try to give Micky the same sort of feeling.

"You okay?" Mike asked.

"Uh, yeah, I'm fine. I just didn't know you'd be home tonight," Micky shrugged, "But I'm okay."

"What's wrong, Mick?" Mike insisted.

At first, Mike could see confusion on Micky's face, a confusion that Mike couldn't exactly understand, but eventually Micky looked back down at his knees.

"I just… fuck, Mike, I just… I know I've been acting so weird these past few weeks, I just… Peter and I had something so good goin' for us, man. Sure, it wasn't as if we could ever get married but we had something real. And now… now it's all gone. Since the thrush, nothing's been the same. I mean, I know, I knew things would be different but I never thought… I never figured they'd be _this_ different. Whenever I would try to kiss him at the hospital, just on the cheek, he'd tense up. He's felt so distant. I tried to kiss him today and he just pushed me away. I know… I know he's going through hell right now, but doesn't he know I'm here for him? I… it's selfish of me to hate him for not letting me kiss him. I understand why he wouldn't want me to. But I have… I'd never want to cheat on him, he needs me now more than ever but… It's ridiculous but I feel so alone because… I just…," Micky trailed off after blurting out his words.

He began to cry again. Mike moved closer to Micky and acted without thinking. He lifted Micky's head with his hand and kissed him. For a moment, Mike thought Micky would pull away but he didn't. Mike could taste the salt of Micky's tears. Then Micky broke off the kiss, face still very close to Mike's.

"You ain't alone, Micky. We'll get through this together," Mike said, feeling as if that was the right thing to say in the moment.

There was a moment after that then, when Mike wasn't entirely sure what Micky was going to do, but then Micky returned the kiss to Mike.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you all so much for reading! I would once again like to point out that I'm not a doctor or a historian, and I encourage anyone who finds this fic interesting to do some research about the AIDS epidemic. This fic does not do it justice but it is also not meant to make light of AIDS either. I apologize for any medical inaccuracies but I am just a high school student, and I did my best to try and be as accurate as I could be. Feel free to leave a like and/or a review and stay tuned for more soon! Have a wonderful rest of your day! :)


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Micky woke up to something he never thought he'd wake up to in a million years. Sleeping next to him was a naked Michael Nesmith. Mike's hand was draped over Micky's side, the blanket pulled up to both of their shoulders. The memories of last night were still fresh in Micky's mind and a smile crept onto Micky's face. He felt good this morning. Almost as if he had purged everything last night, leaving him to be renewed in the light of day. The feeling of having the ability to take things by the horns and take control, that's what last night had returned to him, although why and how was beyond the young drummer. But then it occurred to Micky that Mike must have been extremely drunk last night. That caused his smile to falter slightly. Nonetheless, Micky still felt good and that was all that mattered. He looked at Mike's face. The bruising didn't seem as bad as it had last night. It was only around his chin and it looked almost as if he'd just fallen down.

Mike would wake up soon and maybe ask Micky to forget about last night, or possibly nothing would be said between the two of them, it'd just be expected that Micky forget about it. With that in mind, Micky decided it was high time he got dressed and went downstairs to make some breakfast. He gently rolled himself out of bed, being sure to be as gentle as possible in order to leave Mike sleeping. As Micky pulled on some underwear and pants, he heard the rustling of the blanket. Grabbing a shirt from his drawer, Micky turned to see Mike sitting up in his bed. It was an odd sight, one Micky still couldn't believe.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Micky grinned, pulling on his shirt, "I'm gonna go start breakfast. Hopefully Davy hasn't beaten me to it, though."

With that said, Micky headed for the door, feeling that through his words, Mike would understand that Micky had already forgotten about last night. But just as Micky was opening the door, Mike told Micky to wait. Surprised, but only for a moment, Micky left the door closed and turned around to face Mike, unsure of what to expect.

"Micky, I… I really enjoyed last night," Mike stammered.

His eyes were avoiding Micky's and Micky wondered what was going on here.

"What?" Micky frowned.

He couldn't help himself. He was sure that he had misheard Mike. Mike glanced down at the floor, a red flush creeping high into his cheeks.

"I enjoyed last night. It was… fun. Or… it was nice, or whatever you're supposed to say," Mike seemed to be grasping for words, sounding almost angry but the expression on his face said the opposite.

If Micky didn't know any better, he'd have guessed Mike was feeling a little bit embarrassed.

"Uh…," Micky began, unsure of what to say or even how to react, "Yeah, it was nice. I liked it, too."

Maybe Mike was still drunk. Or maybe he'd done drugs last night. He did get into some sort of fight. Something had to have happened last night for Mike to openly admit he liked having sex with Micky. Not because Micky was bad at it or anything , in fact Micky felt that he was quite good in bed, but because of the fact that Mike hardly wanted to hold another man's hand let alone admit to doing anything more with one. Maybe Mike had suffered brain damage?

"That's good," Mike stated, still seeming to be having a tough time articulating himself.

His eyes were still wandering around the room.

"Well," Micky cleared his throat a little, "All good things do come to an end. No biggie."

He gave Mike a lopsided smile in hopes of alleviating the tension Micky felt between them, although Micky had a sense that the feeling was not mutual. A large part of him wanted to put this behind him. For a brief moment, Mike studied the wall before settling his gaze upon Micky. He looked very serious.

"It, uh, it doesn't gotta end, if, um, you don't want it to," Mike said.

Micky was taken aback by Mike's comment. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

"What d'ya mean?" Micky frowned.

"I mean… I wouldn't mind doing it again, ya know. If you wanna. Peter won't mind an' we can tell him if you wanna," Mike explained.

Micky felt horrible for feeling so weird. No… weird was not the right word to describe what Micky was feeling in that moment. It was more of a mix of pleasant surprise and slight shock.

"'Course Peter won't mind," Micky chuckled, "I'm just… surprised, is all, that you're saying all this."

"I like you, Micky. I… feel a lot better after last night," Mike admitted.

"I feel a lot better, too," Micky nodded, "And… I like you a lot too, Mike."

"I know all we's done before was just fool around, but we can… I dunno, be more, I guess, if you wanna, I dunno," Mike shrugged.

"Sure I wanna," Micky grinned, feeling as if he were still dreaming, "Peter's gonna be overjoyed when he finds out."

"Will ya let me tell him?" Mike asked.

"Alright, seems only fair," Micky agreed, then smirked, "Plus, he probably wouldn't believe me if I told him."

As soon as the words left Micky's mouth, he felt a little bad about them. Mike visibly flinched a little, although Micky wasn't sure why. In fact, he still wasn't entirely sure why Mike was saying all of this. The thought of brain damage floated back into Micky's head for a brief moment.

"Hey, Mike, I'm overjoyed you wanna be a bit more than friends but can I ask why now?" Micky gently entered the topic, or at least he felt as if he did.

"I just realized last night that I'm very gay," Mike replied after a moment.

A warm feeling blossomed inside of Micky's chest the same time a smile spread itself across Micky's face. He fought back the urge to laugh. So it wasn't brain damage after all. Or maybe whatever sort of scuffle Mike had gotten into last night had finally knocked some sense into the guitarist.

"Wow, that's cheesy," Micky teased.

Mike rolled his eyes.

"Just go on an' make breakfast or something," he said as he got up and started to get dressed.

Micky nodded and left the room feeling better than ever. He didn't feel alone anymore and he felt as if today would be a brand new start. Things with Peter would be better. Things with Davy would be better. Things in general would be better. Coming downstairs, Micky found Davy sitting in front of the television, drinking coffee or tea, Micky couldn't really tell. He guessed that it was probably tea. The news was on, at least that's what it sounded like to Micky.

"Morning, Davy," Micky greeted.

Davy glanced up at Micky and offered him a smile.

"Good morning, Micky. You seem happy this morning," Davy observed with a bemused smile.

"Oh, I'm more than happy," Micky grinned, then did a twirl, "I'm absolutely gay!"

Davy laughed at that, a deep rumbling that petered off into a shrill high note, shaking his head a moment before returning to the news. Micky entered the kitchen area and began to make breakfast. He figured eggs, bacon, and pancakes would be good enough for a meal to mark this momentous occasion.

"Peter!" Micky's voice drifted in from the half opened door to the bathroom.

Peter was knelt down in front of the toilet, the seat up because he felt horribly nauseous and was convinced that at any moment he might vomit. Hands braced on the side of the toilet, Peter shut his eyes, wondering what on earth Micky might want. Why couldn't he leave him alone?

"Peter! Peter, you've got a phone call!" Micky called out.

"Tell them-," Peter began but was cut off by a sudden burning sensation in his throat as he felt the putrid acidic contents of his stomach flood into his mouth.

He bent closer to the toilet bowl in order to avoid a mess but in the process felt as if he had made things worse, since now he could smell the stink of it, which made him gag and brought forth another bout of vomit. The AZT had been working wonders for a solid week and a half. For the most part Peter had felt pretty good and only experienced a few side effects, mainly feeling tired more than usual. This was the first time that he had vomited because of the drug and he wasn't entirely sure if it was the AZT or some brand new infection. The leadened feeling of nearly overwhelming panic only made Peter feel more sick but he didn't feel as if he'd vomit anymore. At least not right now. But he could very well be wrong. Flushing the toilet, Peter stood up on shaky feet and quickly brushed his teeth in order to get out the bitter aftertaste of vomit that was currently residing in his mouth. Just then Micky's head popped into the bathroom.

"Peter, are you alright?" he asked, eying Peter up and down as he spit out toothpaste foam and washed his mouth out with water.

The taste was still lingering, an echo plastered over with a mint tinge.

"Yeah, I'm good," Peter assured Micky, despite the fact that Peter would be calling Dr. Cole as soon as he left the bathroom in order to make sure that this vomitting session wasn't connected to some sort of opportunistic illness, "Who was on the phone?"

Micky's brows were still knitted together in a look of concern and Peter hoped that Micky wouldn't push the issue of whether or not Peter was really fine. He really didn't want to go into anything right now.

"Your mom's still on the line," Micky replied after a moment, "I told her I'd go get you and put you on. She wants to talk about Christmas."

The word sent chills down Peter's spine, a sense of dread spreading through his body. With the whirlwind of a hospitalization, a new drug, and just generally re-acclimating himself to life, Peter had completely lost track of the days. More specifically, he'd completely forgotten that Christmas was fast approaching. Why hadn't he noticed the cooler weather and presumably the decorations that were already up for the merry season? Hadn't he overheard Christmas plans that his friends had surely been discussing? Peter couldn't remember any answers to any of those questions. But the main reason why he was kicking himself for forgetting was because of the fact that every year Peter journeyed to his childhood home two weeks before Christmas in order to spend a week with his family in Connecticut. He would see his mother and father, catch up with his brother and sister, and play with his niece and nephew. It was almost the second week of December, if Peter was remembering correctly, and so his family would be expecting him soon. Very soon.

"Hey, Pete, you gonna be sick again?" Micky asked, cutting through Peter's thoughts.

He must have paled or something due to his rapid fire train of thought.

"Um," Peter swallowed a lump in his throat, "No, I'm fine. I should probably go pick up the phone before my mom hangs up."

Micky let Peter pass without saying anything, although Peter could sense the worry he was feeling as it seemed to radiate off of him. He beelined for the phone that was in the kitchen and picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Peter, finally. Hi, sweetheart!" his mother's voice greeted him, sounding oddly electronic and small.

It was as if some robot was trying to pretend to be Peter's mother. It made him smile a little, imagining a scenario in which his family members had made robot copies of themselves in order to get into some holiday themed hijinks.

"Hi, mom," Peter said, feeling almost sheepish.

"Sweetie, I just wanted to make sure you're coming home and when you think you'd be getting here, because your brother is coming on the 5th next week and your sister will be arriving on the next day," his mother explained, taking in her usual matter-of-fact way.

Peter wanted to kick himself physically. How could he forget about this? How had he let it sneak up on him like this?

"Oh, uh, well I'll actually be coming on the 8th," he answered, "I know it's later in the week, but I've been so tied up with band work."

Lying to his mother made his skin crawl. Didn't she have a right to know about her son's health? But he couldn't tell her.

"That's alright, sweetheart, I just wanted to know. I'll let your father know when you'll be coming and I'll send your brother to pick you up at the airport then," his mother informed him, seemingly talking to herself.

She was probably marking all of this down into one of her little notebooks, scribbling in Peter's information underneath a short grocery list or something. It brought another small smile to Peter's face, a warm feeling spreading in his chest. It then occurred to Peter that in his condition, he'd need to bring someone who knew what he had harbored inside of him. If he got unexpectedly sick during his visit with his family, they'd have no idea what they were dealing with.

At least not until they got him to the hospital. And even then, it wasn't exactly a guarantee. Peter had decided not to tell them about his diagnosis, due to the fact that if he did so, he'd also have to bite the bullet and tell his family that he was gay as well. And frankly, despite Peter's open nature, coming out to his family was the last thing he wanted to do. A wave of self-hatred that Peter had grown accustomed too recently washed over him. If his parents were to find out about him, they'd be disappointed and broken hearted, and Peter knew he was already the black sheep of the family. There wasn't really a point in trying to make it worse for them.

"Hey, uh, mom, is it alright if I bring a friend this time?" Peter blurted.

The way asking made him feel transported him back to junior high, when Peter had once asked to have a friend of his sleep over. It made him feel like a prepubescent teenager all over again.

"A _girl_ friend?" Peter could almost hear the sly smile in his mother's voice.

His stomach lurched. His grip on the phone tightened.

"No, not a girlfriend, mom. Just one of my bandmates," Peter replied and then stumbled on his words a little because he was about to suggest Micky, but instead the word that came out was "Mike".

Why Mike instead of Micky, Peter wasn't sure at first. He'd love to spend the time with Micky but Micky was far too flamboyant to have around his parents. Surely if Peter brought Micky, they'd know Peter was gay right away. They'd see through his farce within seconds. But Mike. Michael was a safe choice. Rough hands, a politely charming personality, the outward appearance of straight man. Mike wasn't just the safe choice, but the choice that Peter needed. A strong force that could ground him to earth as his family threatened to suck him up into their orbit. Into the orbit of his own self-deprecating mind.

"Oh, well I don't see why not," his mother hid her disappointment well, "We'll look forward to seeing you and your friend Mike on the 8th."

"I'm counting the days," Peter half-lied.

"Alright, sweetheart, I'll talk to you later. I love you," his mother told him.

"Love you, too, mom," Peter replied, feeling empty and hating himself for it.

The line went dead. Peter didn't move to hang the phone back up.

"I have AIDS," Peter whispered into the dead phone.

He barely registered that he had said anything in fact. There was a hollowness in his chest that made Peter ache and in the back of his mind, he reminded himself that muscle aching was a side effect of AZT, but still the drug didn't explain the hollow feeling. Someone had carved his chest out of wood, leaving it hollowed out and brittle. For the first time in a long time, Peter yearned for his mother's touch. Her long, slender arms wrapping around him as she brought him close to her chest, squeezing him tightly as if to say that nothing could hurt him with her there. Just like how she had held him when he had come home from grade school with bruised cheeks and bloodied noses, never being bold enough to stand up to his bullies like his older brother had been. Would his mother hold him like she had then if he told her about the death that he held inside of himself? Or would she push him away, disgusted and appalled?

"Peter, you doing alright, mate?" the suddenness of Davy's voice startled Peter and he dropped the phone.

It clattered against the wall, bouncing up and down like a yo-yo thanks to the cord that connected it to it's receiver. Peter looked down at the phone in slight pity. It could never be cut from the receiver or else it would be rendered useless. Dead.

"Whoa," Davy was saying, sliding himself between Peter and the phone, "Didn't mean to spook you."

Davy picked up the phone and returned it to its cradle on the wall.

"Sorry, I-," Peter started but wasn't entirely sure how he wanted to finish that sentence.

He brought a hand up to his forehead and rested it there for no apparent reason, his eyes still trained on the phone, mind wandering away.

"It's alright, Peter," Davy said, brows only slightly furrowed, "It's no biggie."

The smaller man tilted his head up and Peter was struck by how small Davy was. He was small but muscular, although one wouldn't be able to tell unless they were very close to him or if Davy had his shirt off. Peter recalled a conversation from ages ago when he and Davy had first met, when Peter asked him about this, and Davy had told him that as a teenager, he'd wanted to grow up to be a jockey. It was a dream that was soon abandoned due to a leg injury that Davy had never elaborated upon. How it answered Peter's original question still baffled Peter to this day.

"Peter, are you feeling alright?" Davy wondered.

No, Peter could never feel alright. How could he? The clock that marked his life was running out of minutes, cut short by a cruel and unforgiving God that Peter hardly believed in anymore. Hadn't since the first friend had perished. Now here he stood in the middle of the storm, at the edge of the precipice, awaiting the final push. The one that would knock him down into the unknown abyss beneath. Nausea swept over Peter and without warning to the man in front of him, Peter doubled over, acidic bile scorching his throat as he vomited upon Davy's feet. Disgust flashed across Davy's face as he instinctively backed away from the sick on the floor, bumping into the wall behind and nearly knocking the phone off its cradle. The sudden stab of embarrassment and horror that Peter felt then made the room spin a little and heat rose in his cheeks.

"D-Davy, I'm sorry," Peter immediately blurted, looking frantically around for something to clean his mess up with.

"It's okay, Peter, you don't need to be sorry. Are you alright?" he heard Davy saying but Peter hardly noticed as he had spotted a roll of paper towels.

He grabbed them before dropping to his knees. Ripping off a wad of paper towel, Peter began to mop up his sick.

"Hey, hey, let me do that," Davy protested, trying to grab the paper towel roll out of Peter's hand.

"What's going on?" Micky's voice seemed more distant than it should have been.

The room was spinning again so Peter shut his eyes to keep himself from feeling nauseous again. The last thing he needed right now was to vomit yet again. The cold grip of fear made him shiver at the thought that maybe his vomiting could be attributed to the flu. Or some other sickness. Could the thrush have returned? Could it be worse than thrush?

"Peter threw up," he heard Davy explain.

Someone, presumably Micky, was helping him to his feet. Peter opened his eyes and realized that Micky was pulling Peter away from his vomit as Davy cleaned it up.

"Peter, are you feeling okay?" Micky was asking him, but Peter almost didn't notice as he had suddenly become very tired.

"Peter?" Micky repeated.

"I just felt nauseous, that's all. I'm dizzy, a little. And tired," Peter ticked off all that he was feeling physically.

"I'm callin' the doc," Mike said as he entered the picture.

Where had he been hiding? He moved behind Davy, who had just finished cleaning up the sick on the floor and was disappearing into the bathroom to, Peter assumed, wash the sick off his feet. Or his shoes. Peter couldn't rightly remember whether or not Davy had been wearing shoes. Mike picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Cole's extension.

"It's just the medicine," Peter called meekly, feeling a sudden grip of panic.

If he went back to the hospital, he might never get out. They'd hospitalize him for one infection or the other, leave him to die in an antiseptic smelling hell hole. During his time there, he had gathered that once you got hospitalized, it was a downhill road with the Grim Reaper himself waiting for you at the end. Peter wasn't ready to die. He had to go see his family for Christmas.

"Hi, Dr. Cole, this is Mike Nesmith, Peter Tork's friend," Peter heard Mike say into the phone.

He didn't want to go back, he couldn't go back, not when he was just feeling alright. It was just the AZT. He was just tired.

"Hey, babe, you aren't gonna go back," Micky suddenly was reassuring him, still holding Peter upright in a tight hug.

He must have said that aloud without realizing it.

"It's just the drug," Peter repeated.

"Yeah, he's been doing alright. It's just, he's been throwing up," Mike continued after pausing to hear what Dr. Cole had to say, "Uh-huh, yeah, he said he was feelin' nauseous, dizzy, and tired."

Mike was silent for a moment and Peter breathed in the thick scent of wood and sand that was the staple of Micky's smell. He brought his hands up to clasp at Micky's arms. Davy returned then and stood near enough to Peter for him to smell the soap on his feet. He must have not been wearing shoes. Mike took his ear away from the phone in order to twist his head around.

"Peter, have you been experiencing any other symptoms?" Mike asked him.

Peter thought hard about this.

"No," he finally replied.

Mike nodded, then twisted himself back into position and relied this message to Dr. Cole.

"Alright, thanks doc," Mike said and then hung up.

"What'd he say?" Micky asked.

"Doc says it's probably just side effects of the AZT. If you start feeling any other symptoms or something, Peter, let us know, because then doc says we should come in just to be safe," Mike answered.

Peter wanted to protest but knew that it'd be no use. So he nodded and agreed that if he felt anything else, he'd let his friends know.

"Maybe you wanna take a bath? It might help you feel better. I'll even fill the tub up for you," Davy offered.

"That'd be nice, wouldn't it," Micky agreed.

"Sure," Peter said, despite the fact that he didn't actually want to take a bath right now.

"Okay," Davy nodded and then disappeared into the bathroom.

At some point Micky must have let go of Peter because Micky was explaining that he was going to make dinner. Something so normal reminded Peter of his mother. And of Christmas.

"Mike, will you take me to Connecticut next Thursday, the 8th?" Peter asked.

The lanky man seemed puzzled.

"You're gonna go visit your family?" he asked.

"I got to. My mom called. She's expecting me. If I don't go, they'll know I-," Peter stopped himself before he said that they'd know he was dying, instead saying, "that something's wrong."

"Peter, you shouldn't go anywhere near an airplane when you're like this," Micky protested, "Do you know what airplanes are? They're like flying capsules of germs. You'll pick something up and get sick. We can just spend Christmas together, and visit my family or something. They'd love to have you over."

"I'll be fine," Peter wasn't sure at all if he would be, "I've got the AZT and I'll have Mike. Plus, anyways, we're spending Christmas Eve together, just the four of us, and Christmas Day with your family."

"Yeah, I know that. But you could still get sick, I think you should just tell your parents that you're too busy," Micky insisted.

"I have to go," Peter stated.

There wasn't anything that Micky could say that would convince Peter otherwise. Going to Connecticut was something he had to do. Part of him even wanted to do it.

"Then I'll book us a flight," Mike agreed.

Up until that point he hadn't said anything and Peter gave him a look of relief. Mike must have understood that Peter had to do it, Peter was sure of that.

"What?" Micky's voice hitched up to an unnatural squeak, "You can't be serious, Mike."

"The doc said Peter can do and should do whatever he pleases, so if he wants to go home for a week, he's going home for a week," Mike nodded.

"Thank you," Peter said.

"Peter! You're baths ready!" Davy shouted from the bathroom.

"Go on an' take your bath 'fore mister Worry Wart over there finishes dinner," despite the small smile on Mike's face, Peter could see an unidentifiable emotion in his eyes.

Peter gave a slight nod of his head and headed for the bathroom. There was steam on the mirror that hung above the sink and Davy had evidently rooted through Peter's drawers in order to provide him some pajamas. The pajamas were on top of a towel which was perched upon the back of the toilet.

"Thanks for the clothes," Peter said.

"Enjoy," Davy winked, trying to be humourous. It fell flat.

Despite that, it still brought a sense of warmth and Peter smiled in return. Then Davy left, closing the door behind him. All alone, Peter undid his pants, pulling them off along with his underwear. Then he pulled off his shirt and climbed into the tub, sinking himself low into the water. The tub was, thankfully, long enough for Peter to fully submerge himself. The hot liquid felt good against Peter's skin, enveloping him like a blanket. No sounds were coming from the other side of the door and Peter felt as if he were suddenly on some sort of new planet. He was in his own orbit now, floating far up in the Earth's atmosphere, far away from everyone else. Peter lived on a whole new plane of existence, one in which his friends could not follow him. How had this happened to him, anyways? Hadn't he been safe enough? Once again, Peter found himself circling the hole of self-hatred. It was a slippery slope, one that Peter found himself falling down more and more often. Three weeks and five days. That was how long Death had been inside of Peter. Maybe even longer because he started the count from the day he found out what was inside of him.

He still hadn't written a song about all of this. It felt like years since he had confessed his interest in writing a song about all of this to Micky on the beach, but nonetheless there was still no song. In fact, more often than not, Peter found himself too tired to play his bass. There was no income for Peter these days either, since he also found gigs far too tiring as well. Peter hated it and hated himself for being so weak. Shouldn't he be strong enough by now to play at a simple gig? He'd asked Dr. Cole about it. Dr. Cole hadn't been of much help.

"Don't run yourself ragged, Peter. Your body will need a lot more rest than it did prior to all of this, and then add on top how the AZT might affect your body. You need your rest now more than ever," Dr. Cole had told him.

A sigh escaped Peter, his breath causing a slight ripple effect in the water. What had he done to deserve this? Fucked a man, that was what. Now he had death running through his veins, weakening his immune system, reducing him to nothing more than one hospital visit away from the grave. Peter shut his eyes then, inhaling air into his lungs as he did so, and then slid down so that his head was underneath the warm water. The water filled his ears, causing everything to become silent, except for the occasional sloshing of the water, which eventually ceased as Peter made himself very still. Maybe if he could stay underneath the water forever, he'd never have to face his family. Or another hospitalization. He knew that he shouldn't be so focused on the future. A nonexistent, pointless future. Because all he could do was take this one day at a time. He should be enjoying his life more now that he possibly had so little of it left. But his thoughts kept returning back to not himself, but his friends.

How could he have done this to Micky? To Mike and Davy? Peter knew Micky wanted to grow old with Peter, wanted to have a life with Peter. On their third official date, Micky had pointed out a heterosexual couple that were holding hands. He had indicated the ring on the woman's finger and said that they were probably engaged. He had then launched into a lengthy fantasy of how he wished he could propose to Peter and marry him. To which Peter had gently informed Micky that, despite the fact that he loved Micky very much, he just couldn't stay monogamous. At least not yet. In the face of this comment, Micky had only laughed. He went on to say that he'd wait for Peter for as long as he had to and Peter remembered asking Micky what he meant by that.

"C'mon, I saw you and Davy kissing before I asked you out on our first date. I knew what I was getting into. But at the end of the day, you come back to me. And that's all that matters. And I'll wait here, loyal and all that junk, until you're ready to settle down," Micky had said before winking and adding, "And even then, we can both kiss Davy once we settle down. Because he's a good kisser."

Micky hadn't had a problem with Peter sleeping around when they first had heard about the warning regarding AIDS. Mike had lectured him beyond belief about becoming celibate for the foreseeable future, but Micky had merely asked Peter to be careful. Sweet, wonderful, Micky. His Micky, loyal to a fault. Just like a big puppy walking on two legs. How could he have done this to him? How could he go and get AIDS like this? It was a miracle he hadn't given it to Micky. The thought of giving it to Micky brought forth thoughts of how calmly Micky had accepted Peter's illness, give or take a few breakdowns here and there. Micky hadn't even been upset at Peter at all. Or at least not to Peter's knowledge. Micky deserved better than him. Peter had half a mind to tell Micky to move on. He was glad that Micky and Mike seemed to be developing a relationship. It would mean less pain for Micky once Peter was gone.

The burning in his lungs began to register with Peter, slowly cutting through his thoughts. Opening his eyes under the water, Peter saw the shimmery, distorted image of the bathroom ceiling above him. If he wanted to, he could stay underneath the water. When had he opened his mouth? No oxygen could be found here, just warm bath water. It filled his mouth and his nostrils. The burning in his lungs was becoming more prominent and began to register more as the seconds ticked by. The water stung his eyes. It was warm down here. How long had he been under the water? Not long at all really, but it felt like forever. How much longer could he stay down here, in this peaceful world? He didn't want to resume his orbit around Earth. He'd much rather stay here, in this muted and distorted reality. But he could not deny himself air any longer. He surfaced, spluttering and gasping for oxygen to fill his lungs. Once he'd successfully regained air, Peter took a large gulp, then plunged himself back down under the water. This time, he wanted to try something different.

Instead of holding his breath, he let it out in one big scream. The water bubbled with the air, the scream a far off hiss in his ears underneath the water. Then he allowed himself to inhale the warm water. He felt it rushing down his throat, threatening to choke him. Once again he surface, spluttering and gasping. He didn't want to die on someone else's terms. Sliding back down under the water, Peter shut his eyes. How could he have done this to Micky? Mike would be fine, Peter figured, when he eventually died because Mike was strong. Davy would probably grieve but move on. But Peter knew that Micky loved him. Loved him like the stupid idiot he was. How could he have done this to Micky. As he surfaced once more, Peter caught the sound of someone knocking on the bathroom door.

"Yeah?" Peter called out, his eyes stinging a little thanks to having them open under the water.

The door opened and Davy's head popped into the room.

"Dinner's ready, whenever you get out," he informed Peter.

"Oh," Peter hardly wanted to eat after feeling so nauseous earlier, "I'll be out in a minute."

But Micky would make him eat whether he wanted to or not. The last time Dr. Cole had had Peter checked out, he had recommended Peter try to put on three more pounds. Since then, Peter had done very little to gain any weight, so Micky had taken it upon himself to do what Peter wouldn't.

"Alrighty," Davy's voice sounded genuinely cheerful.

Then the brown haired, little man disappeared as the door closed shut. He hadn't even cleaned himself. But he did feel better. So he unplugged the drain and sat in the tub until all of the water was sucked away. Then he forced himself to his feet and dried himself off. After he'd dressed himself, he took a moment to look at himself in the mirror. The steam had disappeared at some point. Staring back at him was some new creature. It wasn't Peter, the Peter he knew himself to be. Staring back at him was some well camouflaged Spaceman, briefly visiting Earth before returning to his spaceship far away. He wasn't Peter at all anymore. All he was was some sort of Moon Person. On that far distant planet with all of the Others. Way up on the moon, far away from everything else. Looking away from the mirror, Peter sighed. Despite all of his jumbled up thoughts, the bath had helped. Quite a bit. As he exited the bathroom, he was even feeling a little bit hungry.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you for reading! Once again, this fic is in no way trying to make light of AIDS nor is it super realistic. This story is clearly fiction and I encourage anyone interested in this fic to do some research into real life stories about the 1980s AIDS epidemic because this fic does not come close to giving the real epidemic justice, such as watching We Were Here (a documentary that can be found on Netflix and online). I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next one should be up around this time next week. Feel free to leave a like and/or a review, both are very much appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

They hadn't packed much, since it was cheaper to just have a carry-on than to have to check some big suitcase. It didn't matter anyhow, since Peter's mother would more than happily wash their clothes or provide them with anything they might happen to need. And they were only staying until Tuesday, the 13th. The plane ride had been fine, Peter had slept the whole time, and once they had made it outside of the airport, he felt happy. There was snow. It felt as if Peter hadn't seen snow in years. Decades, even, despite the fact that it wasn't true at all. He saw snow every year, when he came to visit his family. Waiting outside for them was Jack, Peter's older brother of four years. Two inches taller than Peter, one would never guess they were related, only because out of his three siblings, Peter was the only one who had inherited his mother's blonde hair. Jack and his sister, Alison, both had the darker brown hair of their father, Jimmy. Upon spying his brother, Peter felt a burst of joy explode inside of him.

"Jack!" he exclaimed as he bounded over to the car that his brother was leaning against.

"Peter! I'll be damned," Jack returned the sentiment and wasted no time in embracing Peter.

Jack smelled of their parents home, a smell that Peter couldn't describe in words, lest he not give it the justice that it deserved. Nonetheless, it was a comforting smell. Jack pulled back from the embrace, hands planted firmly on Peter's shoulders.

"You look skinnier then I've ever seen ya, Pete. What's California doin' to you? Starving you?" Jack teased, then his eyes wandered beyond Peter's shoulder, "And this must be your band friend, Mike."

Peter turned to look at Mike, who seemed far too unnaturally stiff.

"Mike, this is my older brother, Jack," Peter said to him.

"How ya doin'?" Mike greeted, sticking his hand out towards Jack, who promptly it shook it with zeal.

"You from the South?" Jack asked.

"Yup, Texas, born and raised," Mike replied.

"Whoa, so you a cowboy or something?" Jack arched an eyebrow, a little smirk lurking within his eyes.

"Nah, I don't like horses much," Mike answered.

"Me neither, man," Jack chuckled, then clapped his hands together, "Well, we better get heading home. Mom told me to get you two home before she has dinner all set and ready, or else no dessert for me."

Mike gave Peter a quizzical look but Peter just shook his head in response before clambering into the backseat of the car. The drive home was one so familiar, Peter could walk it in his sleep. It reminded him of his younger years, the days when things were simpler and he had his whole life ahead of him. Twenty minutes or so later, Jack was pulling into the driveway of Peter's childhood home.

"Bobby and Cindy are excited to see you, all they've been talking about is playing with you, ya know," Jack commented as they walked up to the garage, "Alison may say they like me just fine, but I know you're their favorite uncle."

"That's because I actually play what they want to play," Peter pointed out.

"Who's Bobby and Cindy?" Mike leaned over and asked Peter in a hushed voice as Jack opened the garage.

"They're my sister's kids," Peter explained, realizing that Mike hardly knew his family.

In fact, none of his friends really knew his family. It gave Peter an odd sensation in his arms and legs, a sort of spreading numbness that wasn't quite numbness but there was no other word for it.

"Oh," Mike nodded.

He didn't entirely seemed phased and for the first time since the plane ride, Peter felt as if this were somehow unreal. As if this were all some sort of dream. But the bitterness of the cold wind and the tangy scent of snow was too lifelike for it to be a dream.

"And he's their favorite uncle," Jack enjoined, seeming to have overheard at least Peter's reply, breaking Peter's thoughts in the process.

Mike offered Jack a small smile before they entered the home and Peter was struck instantly with how much it hadn't changed. The garage lead into the kitchen, where his mother was stooped in front of the oven, checking a chicken from the smell of the place. Upon their arrival, she closed the oven and turned to the trio. Jack slipped between Mike and Peter, disappearing into the living room, leaving them alone in the kitchen with Peter's mom.

"My goodness, sweetheart, you're finally here!"his mother exclaimed, quickly coming over to him and embracing him.

"And you must be Mike!" she pulled away from Peter to embrace Mike.

Peter watched with a bemused look as Mike stiffened at his mother's touch. Then Peter's mother released Mike and stood back a little, eying them both.

"My goodness, Peter, you've lost weight," his mother observed, "You both are skinnier than malnourished chickens. Don't you eat in that hippie commune you live in now, Peter?"

"Mom, I don't like in a commune," Peter couldn't help but smile, despite the fact that on any other given visit, those words would have cut deep, "I just live in a house, with my three friends."

His mother looked at him skeptically.

"Are you one of those new age believers my son has so hopelessly fallen prey to?" his mother asked Mike.

Mike glanced towards Peter, almost begging for help but Peter was powerless to do anything. He simply gave Mike a smile, knowing that as soon as his mother asked her questions, she'd be finished.

"No, ma'am, I ain't," Mike replied.

"Do you partake in drugs?" his mother asked.

"No, ma'am, I do not," Mike replied, though Peter knew he was lying.

"Do you believe in Christ and the good Lord almighty?" his mother asked.

"Yes, ma'am, I do," Mike replied.

His mother's eyes took one more moment to look over Mike before a smile blossomed on her face.

"Good, Peter, I'm glad you have this young man as your friend," his mother declared.

"Gee, thanks, mom," Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Alright, go say hi to your sister and the kids. Your father will be home from the store any minute now, so when he gets home, we'll start dinner," his mother instructed.

"Sorry about that," Peter whispered to Mike as they made their way into the living room.

"Your mom seems real nice," Mike whispered back.

"Make sure to tell her," Peter chuckled.

In the living room, Jack was sitting with Alison's husband, Harry, on the couch. He was a very short man, possibly shorter than Davy, and Peter's sister always seemed to tower above him. Peter found it very strange and ultimately amusing. Alison was perched on an armchair adjacent to the couch, and two children were sat on the floor. One was a girl with wildly curly hair that reminded Peter of Micky's hair. The other was a boy, much larger than the girl, who had neatly trimmed brown hair.

"Hi, guys," Peter greeted and swept a hand towards Mike, "This is my friend, Mike."

"Hello," Mike waved sheepishly.

Harry gave a little wave back and Alison returned the hello.

"Uncle Peter!" the two children exclaimed.

They both scrambled to their feet and raced to Peter, each one grabbing onto one of Peter's two legs.

"Oof," Peter said and then made himself fall flat on his butt.

He noticed that Mike tensed up, presumably thinking that the children had actually caused Peter to fall. But he must have noticed the smile on Peter's face because he eventually sat down next to Harry and Jack, both of whom began to engage in conversation with Mike.

"Uncle Peter, guess what?" Bobby, the oldest of the two children, had turned eight last month.

Peter had mailed him a toy train. Alison had told him that Bobby had loved it.

"What?" Peter asked.

"Mom got me a guitar for my birthday! Can you teach me how to play it?" Bobby asked.

"Your mom got you a guitar?" Peter gave his sister a quizzical look.

All she did was roll her eyes at him.

"It's big," Cindy, age five, commented.

Peter picked Cindy off of his foot and held her in his arms.

"I'm sure it is. Guitars are hefty instruments," Peter agreed.

"Will you teach me how to play it?" Bobby repeated.

"Sure I will," Peter told him.

"Let's play princesses," Cindy demanded then, seeming almost jealous of the attention Peter was giving her brother.

"Aw, I don't wanna play that, it's gross. Let's play pirates!" Bobby countered.

"You be a pirate, Bobby, and Cindy will be the princess. And I'll be the monster, trying to eat you!" Peter suggested, putting Cindy down on the ground before letting out a roar.

The two children squealed in delight and then darted from the room.

"Oh, no, Peter, don't play that came, Cindy will have nightmares," Alison protested as Peter got to his feet.

Somewhere from another room, Cindy shouted, "No I won't!" Peter grinned broadly at his sister, who looked at him pleadingly.

"Here comes the monster!" Peter exclaimed as he lumbered after his niece and nephew.

When Peter's father arrived home, his mother introduced Mike to him. His father said hello but did not acknowledge Peter. It was expected and typical of Peter's father, but nonetheless Mike gave Peter a questioning look which Peter ignored. Dinner was delicious and Peter ate as if he were a starved man. After dinner, Peter helped his mother clean up. Mike seemed to be enjoying the company of Peter's brother and Peter was overjoyed by this. Once the dishes were cleaned up, Peter played airplane with the kids, in which he lifted one of them above the ground and spun them around, before letting the other one have a turn afterwards. This game was cut short though, due to the fact that Peter started to feel far too dizzy and a little nauseous. Around nine, Peter helped Alison put the kids to bed. Peter read both of them a story and kissed them goodnight, with Alison singing them both a song and kissing them goodnight as well. Shutting the door to the kids room, Peter suddenly felt exhausted. It came on so suddenly that Peter had to sit down or else he felt his legs would just give out on him. Alison joined him on the floor of the hallway, sitting down across from him.

"I've missed you," she said after a moment, gaze fixed on her hands.

"Me too," Peter agreed.

"Mom's right about you having lost weight, you know," Alison said.

Peter glanced down at the carpeted floor, fingers brushing absently at the fibers. He remembered sitting up here with Alison, just like this, on Christmas morning, waiting for their parents to wake up so they could run downstairs and see what Santa had brought them.

"Yeah, I know," Peter sighed.

"And you came late this year," Alison continued, "You never come late."

"So?" Peter frowned.

He kept his gaze trained on the carpet, running the tips of his fingers back and forth across the carpet.

"So, I think something's up," Alison concluded, "Are you on drugs or something?"

"Just pot," Peter shrugged, smiling a little, "And you already know that."

He knew that Alison disapproved of his drug use, but why would she bring it up now? Of all times?

"You got some sort of girlfriend who won't feed you?" Alison arched an eyebrow.

Peter glanced down the hallway, wondering if anyone else was in earshot. Wondering if he should confess to his sister now. All along, Peter had been worried about this. His father was too dense to figure anything out. His mother would conclude that his skinny figure was related to his roommates influence rather than anything else. The kids were too young and his brother would be too engrossed in sports to notice much. But his sister Alison had always had an uncanny way of knowing things about Peter. There was no possible way that he could hide from her. But he had hoped that maybe this time would be different and had just pushed the thought of her figuring it out far from his mind. He then saw the face his sister was making. It was one brimming with humor in a way that seemed tinged with pity.

"I'm just kidding you, Peter," she said, her voice growing softer.

What did that mean? Peter's brows creased together and he looked at her expectantly. It was her turn to glance down the hallway now, as if she were trying to figure out if anyone could hear them as well. Then she leaned forward so that she and Peter were closer together.

"Look, Peter, did you honestly think I wouldn't have figured it out? About you? I mean, I've known since junior high," his sister informed him.

"Known what?" Peter frowned, palms becoming incredibly clammy.

"That you're…," she waved her hand to absently indicate something, "A homosexual."

She pronounced the word with a weird space in between homo and sexual, making it seem funnier then it should have been to Peter. It seemed to ease the tension that was beginning to try and take a hold of his body. His sister knew. Of course she knew.

"I haven't told anyone else," Alison added, as if his silence were some sort of protest.

"How'd you know?" Peter asked.

"Come on. You always enthused about boy bands with me and liked hanging out with me more than Jack. Plus you knew nothing about sports, liked to cook despite the fact that you're terrible at it, and you live with three other men. In a house, not an apartment," Alison replied at length.

"You aren't…. Upset?" Peter couldn't understand how his sister hadn't confronted him about this information yet.

"No, I mean, you're my brother. I love you. Plus, I have like two gay friends and Harry's sister is even a girl homosexual," Alison revealed this information as if it were the greatest coincidence in the world that her husband had a gay sibling just like her.

"A lesbian, his sister's a lesbian," Peter said.

"Oh, right, yeah," Alison nodded, "That."

Peter figured she must have been uncomfortable to think about a woman loving another woman. In fact he doubted that Alison thought much about men loving men, just accepted it on a surface level simply because Peter himself was gay.

"Wow, why didn't you ever… you know, tell me?" Peter wanted to know.

"I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me, and I'd give you your space," Alison shrugged.

"For all of these years?" Peter arched an eyebrow.

"Of course," Alison nodded.

Peter felt something he hadn't felt from his family in years. Honest, true, and unconditional love.

"You're a good sister, Alison," Peter said, at a loss for anything else to say.

He felt grateful that Alison hadn't told anyone else in his family. In fact, it was a miracle she hadn't. And Peter felt more loved than he ever had.

"Well, you're a good brother," Alison shifted herself into what Peter guessed was probably a more comfortable position, "But I do gotta ask you something."

Peter's throat constricted and he wiped the sweat on his palms onto the carpet.

"Yeah?" he prompted.

"I'm not oblivious, plus my gay friends have been talking about it all the time it seems, but it's about that gay cancer that's been going around," Alison seemed to be trying to avoid what she wanted to ask, despite the fact that she still was asking, "You don't… you're being safe, right, Peter?"

There was true concern and worry in Alison's eyes. Blood pounded in Peter's ears and he felt cold. As if the temperature in the room had dropped. He couldn't lie to her. Not to his sister. Not now that he knew that she had kept his dirty secret for so long. For a brief moment, he wondered where Mike was. He needed Mike. He wondered what Micky was doing right now, all the way back in California. Maybe he could lie to Alison. Tell her he was being very careful, then fake a yawn and go to bed. But if he did that, eventually Alison would figure out that he was lying. Whether she found out when Peter finally caved in and told his whole family, or when he died of it, she would find out. Peter couldn't lie to his sister. He just couldn't.

"Alison," Peter began, trying to keep the shake out of his voice, "It isn't gay cancer anymore. It's AIDS. And, well, I have it."

Tears stung Peter's eyes and he looked intensely at the carpet, so he didn't have to look Alison in the eyes. Would she hate him now? Would she tell him to stay away from her children, to keep them safe from him? Would she tell their parents?

"Shit, Peter, I- I'm sorry," Alison sounded stunned.

Risking a look at her, Peter realized that Alison was crying. Seeing his older sister cry made Peter feel horrible.

"Hey, it's okay," Peter said quickly, trying to stop her from crying, "I'm alright. I'm on some medicine that's helping me."

"W-when did you find out you had it?" Alison asked, the tears still trickling down her cheeks.

"About four weeks ago," Peter informed her, "It was a real roller coaster once I found out. Everything went by really quick."

"Four weeks!?" the tears were streaming again, "You… have you been in the hospital?"

"Yes, for thrush," Peter decided that at this point it was honesty or bust.

Alison was looking at him like he had told her he was dying. And in some way, that's exactly what he had done. Peter had figured Alison wouldn't understand the true ramifications of an AIDS diagnosis but perhaps she actually did.

"You haven't told mom and dad yet?" Alison asked.

"I'd have to tell them I'm gay too," Peter shook his head.

"Who's helping you?" Alison demanded.

"My friends," Peter answered.

"That Mike guy?"

"Yeah, Mike. And my friends Micky and Davy," Peter nodded.

"I… shit, Peter, why didn't you tell me?" Alison wanted to know.

She sounded as if Peter had somehow betrayed her and it irritated Peter just a little. Until today, Peter hadn't known his sister knew about his sexuality and he had already explained why he hadn't told the rest of his family. So why was she upset about this now?

"I didn't know you knew about me, Alison. I couldn't tell you for the same reason I won't tell the rest of the family," Peter tried to sound level headed.

He didn't want to sound angry. But he thought that he did.

"Oh, Peter," Alison crawled over so that she was right next to Peter, instead of across from him.

She buried her head into his shoulder, arms clinging to him in a half hug. Peter stroked her hair, wanting to take all he had said back. Maybe it would have been better to lie to her instead of telling her the truth. After a while, Alison sat up so that she could look at Peter.

"I want to be here for you," Alison stated, "I want you to be able to rely on me. After the holidays, can I come up to your place, just to help out? Harry will understand and if you're feeling well enough I'll even bring the kids. I don't want you to think that you have to be alone in this, at least in terms of your family."

Seeing his sister sitting next to him, telling him that she willingly wanted to stand by his side during this trying time, made tears well up in his eyes. He reached out his hand and took a hold of Alison's, squeezing tightly.

"Thanks, sis, that… that really means a lot to me," Peter told her, his eyes fixed on their entwined hands, "We can talk about it after the holidays, just to be safe, but I'd love to have you over."

"Okay," Alison gently squeezed Peter's hand in return, "But if you ever need to, you can call me. No matter what time it is or anything. Keep me in the loop of what's happening."

"I will," Peter nodded his head.

"I love you so much, Peter. You're going to get through this," Alison leaned in to half-hug Peter again.

"I love you, too, Alison," Peter returned the half-hug.

They sat there in the hallway for a few more minutes, just in silence. It wasn't awkward or anything, it was just quiet. He hadn't sat like this with his sister in ages and it reminded him of late nights when he had comforted Alison and her broken heart. Now it was a slightly turned table, with Alison comforting Peter. Although, if Peter were honest with himself, it was more like they were both comforting each.

The rest of the time spent at his family's home seemed to fly by. Peter's mother insisted that Mike and Peter eat thirds or fourths at every meal in order to get some meat on their bones. Peter's father ignored the fact that Peter was even in the house, although Peter one night did see him and Mike having some sort of conversation. Upon pressing Mike on what the conversation had been about, Mike had simply shrugged. Mike did confess however that he really liked Jack and Peter was determined to tease Mike about having a crush on him until they left. Obviously, Mike didn't exactly appreciate that but Peter noticed that since he found humor in it, Mike seemed to not mind as much as he probably would have. On the second to last day of their trip, Peter and his family exchanged gifts. Peter gave Jack a special issue Superman comic book as a joke gift because last year Jack had given Peter a similar, almost pointless present. Then he had given Alison some loose leaf tea that she had liked the last time she had visited Peter in California, years ago at this point. His mother was given a Frankie Valli record that Peter had shelled out quite a bit of money for and his father got a bottle of scotch. The kids were given both a box each. Inside were miscellaneous items that Peter had collected for them over the year and both of the kids found the boxes exciting. Peter himself got a few trinkets and a sweater. After the gifts had all been exchanged, they all ate a mock Christmas dinner.

The week was coming to an end and Peter was getting ready for bed. Tomorrow he and Mike would be going home. Peter felt almost sad to be leaving. All week, he hadn't really felt any symptoms of the AZT and had almost forgotten he was sick. Playing with the kids kept him very busy and his mother's cooking was remarkably better than Micky's, though Davy's cooking did come pretty close to the caliber of Peter's mom. Mike even agreed with this, to Peter's own surprise. As he pulled on his pajama shirt, he felt a sudden surge of dizziness. Staggering a little, Peter's arm shot out and grabbed onto the dresser in front of him in order to balance himself. He had nearly toppled it over. Mike, who was sharing the room with Peter since it was the only other room that had two beds in it, must have noticed.

"Peter, are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," Peter shut his eyes and took a deep breath, "I'm fine, I just got a little dizzy there."

"You don't feel nauseous or anything else, do you?" Mike asked.

Peter opened his eyes and removed his hand from the dresser. The dizzy spell seemed to have passed. He felt fine now.

"No, it's passed already, anyways," Peter replied, before sitting down on his bed.

"You haven't had any symptoms this whole week," Mike observed as he finished getting himself ready for bed.

"It's been nice," Peter laid down, pulling the covers up to his chest.

"I'm surprised that you haven't exhausted yourself by playing with those kids," there was a smile in Mike's voice.

"And I'm surprised that you haven't ran out of conversation topics with your new boyfriend," Peter teased.

"Shut your trap," a pillow shortly fell on top of Peter.

"Come over here and make me," Peter said as he sat up.

Mike rolled off of his bed and sat down in front of Peter, picking up the pillow he had thrown earlier and hitting Peter gently with it. He had a dopey smile on his face. Peter reflected that he looked… good. A wholesome sort of beauty that Peter could look at for days. He wanted to lean forward and kiss Mike. Caress his face. But Peter did no such thing. Instead, he spoke.

"Thanks for coming with me, Mike."

"It's no trouble. I'm happy I came," Mike said, although he seemed a little confused.

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but this week has been such a nice break from everything. I miss Micky and Davy, though," Peter admitted.

"Yeah, I miss those fellas, too," Mike agreed, glancing down at the pillow he held in his hands.

"Do you… miss John?" Peter wasn't sure if he should even try to talk about John with Mike, but Mike had seemed so accepting of himself recently that Peter thought he might as well try.

Although Peter did like John, he was a very nice man, he did not really approve of Mike constantly chasing after him. Peter and Mike had been the first two of the gang to meet and before they had moved into the pad together, Mike had been living with John in another house with a few other guys. Peter had walked in on them kissing once and that was how Peter had found out that Mike was a homosexual, albeit a very closeted one. Mike and John never talked about themselves and they were very close friends, but Peter wished one of them would establish their relationship because it just wasn't good for either of them to stay in the ambiguous void they had always been in. At the mention of John, Mike let out a sigh and Peter wondered what that meant. He waited for Mike to say something.

"John's my best friend, ya know, but since Micky and I, and I guess you too, have been doin' what we've been doin', it ain't been the same with John. I used to want to be with him all the time, as more than a friend, ya know, but now. I realize that he might not think that me and him really count. Not in a bad way, John's too sweet of a man to think something like that, but in the way that it don't count if he and me fool around while he's dating a chick," Mike said at length.

"Maybe you gotta just stop fooling around with him, then. Just be friends," Peter suggested.

"I dunno. I… I'm not sure I'm ready to let him go like that," Mike ran a hand through his hair for a moment, pausing to pluck out a bit of string that had somehow got entangled in the brown mess.

"You'll figure it out, Mike. And whatever you decide, you know me and Micky and Davy will be there to support you," Peter reached over to grab onto Mike's hand.

"I ain't lookin' forward to the plane ride tomorrow," Mike chuckled, changing the topic suddenly.

"Oh, I am. I'll probably sleep like a baby," Peter rubbed his thumb over Mike's palm.

"Maybe I'll keep you awake," Mike joked.

"You're starting to sound like Micky," Peter joked in return.

"How so?" Mike asked, clearly not understanding the joke.

"Doesn't Micky threaten to keep you up all night, with like… I dunno, howling or something? He uses it as a tactic to get what he wants?" Peter explained.

"Nah, he ain't never done nothin' like that," Mike replied, a frown creasing his brow.

"That son of a bitch," Peter nearly burst out laughing, somehow finding this revelation humorous.

Mike smiled broadly at Peter's reaction. Then Mike did something that still surprised Peter. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Peter's. Peter couldn't help but smile. This trip had been so wonderful.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you so much for reading! Sorry for the later chapter post, this week has been such a busy one for me, I didn't get time to edit this chapter until just now. Apologies for any mistakes found in this chapter, I'm pretty sure I caught everything, but I might not have. Anyway, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this latest update, and look forward to another update later this week! Once again, I encourage anyone who finds this fic neat to check out some real life stories about the 1980s AIDS epidemic, as this fic is very much a fictional dramatized version of events, despite the realism I tried to bring to the story. This week's recommendation is And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts. One last disclaimer is that I am not a doctor nor a historian, so I apologize for any inaccuracies that may be found within this fic. Thank you so much for reading & please feel to leave a review and/or a like (both are very much appreciated).


	7. Chapter 7

Taking one last look in the smaller hand mirror that Davy had affixed to the wall behind his bed, Davy decided that he was looking as good as he ever was going to be. Mike and Peter would be coming home tomorrow, so Micky had suggested that they go out to dance or something. Micky had been itching to go out dancing for sometime. Although Davy had no real interest in going out, he'd agreed to accompany Micky anyways. Why on earth he did so was beyond him. Maybe he felt sorry for Micky because, if Davy didn't go with him, he'd be all alone. And dancing alone was never fun. Coming out of his room, Davy found Micky lying upside down on the couch, his face flushed with blood. He must have been like that for some time for his face to look so red.

"You ready?" Micky asked, his position frozen.

"Yeah," Davy nodded his head, feeling only slightly apprehensive.

Just then, the phone rang. Davy hesitated for a moment, just to see if Micky would answer, but there was no movement from the drummer. He stayed motionless, still hanging upside down on the couch.

"I'll get it," Davy sighed, heading into the kitchen and picking up the phone on the third ring, "Hello?"

"Hey," a familiar voice drawled, "Davy! Just the guy I was looking for. Look, it's Tommy, ya, and, boy, have I got a proposition for you, my guy. You want me to pick you up in twenty minutes, and we'll go to this holiday party I was invited to. There's gonna be a _ton_ of girls there and word on the street is that no one's seen you around in a while. So I'm betting you may or may not need a chick for the night. Am I right or am I right? So you, I'll pick you up, yeah."

Tommy Morrison. Davy hadn't heard his voice, over the phone or otherwise, in what seemed like ages. He was one of Davy's straight friends. Being the sociable guy Davy naturally was, he made friends easily, but his friends rarely ever crossed paths with one another. Davy had his gay friends and then he had his straight friends. Now Tommy Morrison thought of himself as Davy's best friend in the whole universe and for the life of Davy he couldn't convince the man otherwise. It wasn't true, in fact Davy didn't particularly enjoy Tommy's company unless they were both high and Tommy was also drunk. And despite the fact that Davy knew Tommy was asking Davy if he wanted to come to this holiday party with him, it felt more as if Tommy already expected Davy to come with him. Davy glanced over at Micky, who was still upside down on the couch. Could he just ditch Micky like this? But the thought of going into a specifically gay club made Davy's skin crawl. He'd be miserable and disgusted because every man there would remind Davy of Peter.

"Sure, I'll see you soon," he said into the phone.

Davy felt his stomach churn. Was he really going to ditch Micky? It wasn't fair to his curly haired lover but Davy knew that if he went with Micky, he'd drain the fun out of the evening. Davy was in no mood to go to a club and dance.

"Amazing, baby, just amazing, I'll see you then," Tommy crowed before the line went dead.

Davy replaced the phone into it's cradle. Why had he said that? Why had he agreed? Because looking at Micky made his skin crawl. Because if he went with Micky, his skin would crawl away from him. He turned around to face Micky.

"Who was that?" Micky asked as he tried to get into a sitting position but ultimately he failed.

"A friend of mine," the feeling of guilt roiled inside of Davy, "Look, Mick, is it alright if I go to a Christmas party with my friend? It was sort of last minute…"

With his first try a failure, Micky decided to just let himself fall off the couch.

"Sure you can, Davy," Micky replied after he clambered to his feet, "I mean, we can go to the club any time we want to. So we can take a raincheck tonight."

The sincerity in which Micky replied made Davy smile, though it didn't make Davy feel any less guilty. Micky was a sweet guy. They were all sweet guys, his friends. So why did he feel so guilty around them?

"Thanks, man," Davy went over to Micky and hugged him, "I promise we'll go dancing sometime soon."

"You just have fun at this Christmas party," Micky placed a kiss onto Davy's cheek, "And make sure to have fun. But not too much fun."

Micky winked, his classic dopey grin plastered on his face.

"I'll have lots of fun with you out of the picture," Davy teased, although he knew his heart wasn't into the banter this evening.

"Oh, Jones, you dog," Micky playfully punched Davy in the shoulder.

"Night, Micky, I'll see you later," Davy rolled his eyes and headed for the door, "And, Micky, don't hang upside down on the couch for too long. You could pass out or something."

"Hey, don't judge how I like to spend my evenings," Micky hit back, "Have fun! Goodnight!"

Davy left the pad listening to Micky laughing, although what he was specifically laughing about was beyond Davy. Maybe some joke he had just thought of or maybe his evening comment had been supposed to be an attempt at humor. Either way, Davy felt relieved to be getting out of the house, alone, with the hopes of spending some time with real people. As soon as the thought entered his head though, he felt a pang of guilt. What did he mean by real people? Why did he feel so relieved to get out of the house, without Micky or Mike or Peter? An uncomfortable sensation filled Davy then so he turned his thoughts to the weather.

It was a bit colder, but not like the cold that Peter and Mike were probably dealing with in Connecticut. It was a California Cold that always reminded Davy of early spring back in Manchester. Not for the first time that week, Davy wondered if he should call his grandfather. Davy would, of course, call him Christmas Day to wish him a happy holiday and ask his granddad how he was doing, but perhaps maybe he should call him sooner. Davy reminded himself though, that it wouldn't do any good. The topic that Davy wanted to get off his chest could never be confessed to his grandfather.

A car honk startled Davy out of his thoughts. How long had he been standing outside on the driveway? He wasn't sure but it didn't matter now. Tommy's car had pulled up. Davy threw one look back towards the pad, wondering if Micky would truly be okay, but nonetheless clambered into the passenger's seat. Tommy looked just as he had when Davy had first met him. Shorter than average, with greasy brown hair that was slicked back with product, and beady eyes. He had a kind smile, something that always confused Davy, and he did have a good sense of style. Had he been just a slightly nicer person, Davy would have found him attractive even.

"Alrighty, Davy-boy, nice to see you!" Tommy said as he backed his car out of the driveway.

"Yeah, thanks for inviting me to this shindig," Davy replied.

"Come _on_ , Davy, I hear you haven't been doing the circuits. 'Course I'm going to invite you to _something_ , even if this isn't a happening party, you know, I mean, what's even been keeping you all kept up, man?" Tommy asked, seeming to be talking far too fast.

"Well, uh-," Davy was unsure of how to answer that question for a moment, "Family issues."

It was a neutral answer, one that wasn't a lie, but not specific either. Although it did surprise Davy that he had said family rather than some other thing, like personal issues.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I can dig that, I can understand that," Tommy nodded vigorously, "Well tonight, just forget all that hang up man, just relax and chat up some chicks. Maybe you'll get lucky."

Tommy winked at Davy then, his eyes off the road for a frightening amount of time. Davy almost thought he'd have to order Tommy to get his eyes back in their proper place. Tommy seemed wired and Davy was trying to recall the last time he'd seen Tommy. Had he always acted like this? Davy couldn't answer that question so he just stared straight ahead.

"Yeah," he absently said.

The drive seemed to last forever but take only a few moments, both at the same time. Tommy pulled up to the curb and put the car in park before turning to face Davy, his hand held out towards him. Davy glanced down at Tommy's palm, which cradled two white pills. They were tiny and Davy was experienced enough to know that it was drugs, most likely ecstasy, but Davy wasn't _that_ good at identifying drugs. It wasn't like he was some sort of expert on the subject.

"What's that?" Davy's brows furrowed together slightly.

He felt stupid for asking that, but Tommy didn't seem to mind.

"Oh, man, Davy, my man, you're gonna love this. This here-," Tommy indicated the tiny white pills in his palm, "-is some Grade A ecstasy. Quality stuff, no halves or nothing. I got this guy, makes it himself, yeah, he's my best friend. My in-man."

Davy's suspicions has been correct and he felt weirdly proud that his guess had been proven right. But then it also occurred to him that Tommy probably had an addiction to this stuff, thanks to his 'in-man', whatever that meant.

"That's nice," Davy wasn't entirely sure what the correct response was, so he said the first thing he could think of.

"Nice, yeah, it's nice," Tommy agreed, head bobbing up and down, "You want some? It's good."

Davy pondered this offer for a moment. It wouldn't be his first tangle with MDMA but it wasn't a drug Davy particularly took often, seeing as he didn't really have the money to acquire a drug addiction. But it was a party and Davy hadn't had a real chance to do any sort of illegal recreation in regards to drugs for what seemed like years. Micky had been insistent that any sort drug be refrained from use for now, even pot, which had surprised even Peter. Peter had protested to this, but had caved eventually. At the thought of Peter, Davy's answer came to him.

"Sure, I'll take one. Thanks, Tommy," Davy replied, taking one of the small, white pills and dry swallowing it.

"Yeah, 'course, anything for you Davy, my pal. You're gonna love it, it's great, quality stuff," Tommy nodded, before swallowing the remaining pill, "Make this party even greater than what it already is, you know. It's just great!"

Davy felt pity for Tommy. He wasn't entirely sure why, since Tommy wasn't exactly a saint. They got out of the car then and headed up to the house. Inside, it was quite strange. It struck Davy that he hadn't been to this sort of party in a while. There were couples dancing in the living room and there was a bar area. It wasn't even a particularly holiday-esque party, despite the erect Christmas tree squashed up in the corner of the living room. As soon as they entered the living room, Tommy disappeared. Did Davy even have a ride home? Tommy hadn't exactly told Davy he'd give him a ride home, nor did Davy really know how to get home in the first place. With a thread of panic sliding all through his body, Davy headed for the bar.

He ordered some fancy drink that just tasted like alcohol and sat on a chair that was positioned just a little bit away from the floor space of the living room that was being used for dancing. There were a few other chairs lined up beside the chair Davy occupied. He nursed his drink for what seemed like ages until a pair of two young women sat down next to him. The one who sat to his immediate left was dressed in a low cut red dress that abruptly ended at her knees. Her hair, a thick brown, was pulled back into a hastily styled bun and her eyes were like liquid pools of chocolate. She was quite beautiful and Davy was struck with the urge to ask her to dance. But he didn't. The young woman next to the other seemed quite tall. Her hair was a sandy blonde that fell loosely about her shoulders. She was wearing a blue dress that touched the floor and had sequins on it. It was dazzlingly bright and it looked almost like shiny metal. Davy became very aware of the music that was playing and his own breath.

"Hi," the red dress wearing woman said, leaning in close to Davy, "You're really pretty."

Her breath smelt heavily of alcohol.

"Thank you," Davy replied.

"I'm Cindy, that's Sarah," the red dress wearing woman introduced herself, before indicating the woman sitting next to her, "She's my best friend."

Sarah gave Davy a half-hearted wave. Davy felt amazing. His sudden realization made him wave enthusiastically back at Sarah.

"I'm Davy," Davy informed Cindy and Sarah, "And I love how shiny your dresses look."

They seemed to sparkle and Davy felt tingly.

"You're so sweet," Cindy cooed, hand suddenly grabbing Davy's.

It felt like a sudden pressure and Davy looked down at the entwined hands, smiling.

"Well, what can I say, you're just so beautiful, I can't help it," Davy told Cindy.

Cindy giggled and began talking about something. Davy followed along with the conversation Cindy seemed to have with herself for some time, only adding in his own two cents of charm when he could actually understand what was going on. Eventually though, her friend Sarah cut Cindy off.

"Cindy, we should get home, it's so late," Sarah said, in an almost pleading fashion, "We've been here for five hours."

Cindy rolled her eyes, body still pressed to Davy's. When did she get so close to him?

"Come one, Sarah, I just want to stay here with Davy," she said and then turned her head slightly to whisper, "He's got an accent."

The whisper though was more like a shout.

"We should go home," Sarah insisted.

"I could go home with you, love," Davy suggested then, without really thinking about it.

It occurred to him then that he seemed to be drifting away from himself. The ghost of himself was detaching itself from his body, or at least that's what it felt like. Cindy seemed pleased by this offer and suddenly kissed Davy. Davy didn't feel it, he just saw it happen.

"Let's go then, Sarah," Cindy announced, leaping to her feet and pulling Davy up with her.

It was a weird experience to feel outside of his body. It was as if were watching himself walk back to Cindy and Sarah's car despite not even really seeing himself. He and Cindy clambered into the back of the car while Sarah took the driver's seat. As soon as the car lurched into motion, Cindy pressed herself close to Davy, kissing his mouth. As soon as she began this, Davy regretted his actions. But it wasn't entirely unpleasant, especially because it felt as if it were happening to some other person. Some other guy named Davy. But then Cindy began to suck on his neck, kissing it at times. Her hands were roaming his chest and she kept fumbling at his pants. Davy wanted to tell her to stop but he felt as if he couldn't move his mouth. His ghost could not control his body, the real and physical him, and he couldn't seem to get back into his body. He wanted Cindy to stop. She undid his pants, her mouth continuing a line of haphazard kisses downwards, despite the fact that Davy still had his shirt on. Davy needed Cindy to stop now.

But the memory of him came to Davy without warning, seeming to transport Davy back to a night that he had done his very best to forget entirely. It had been at the baths, one of the many in L.A., and why Davy had been there in the first place, he couldn't remember, it wasn't even all that important. He used to visit them a lot, when Davy found himself in the mood. The guy had been in the same position that Cindy was in now, kissing Davy lower and lower, and it had felt good then but now it filled Davy with a wave of terror and a stab of guilt. He had had blonde hair, a kind face, charm to match even Davy's own. Cindy found where she seemed to want her mouth. Davy wanted to tell her to stop. He needed her to stop now, this wasn't what he wanted, but she wouldn't stop. He couldn't tell her. She went about her business, without a clue to Davy's panic.

In the bath, the guy had done the same. He had stopped and looked up at Davy before anything really happened. He had had kind eyes. Then he had said to Davy, "I've got _it_ , you know. Just thought you should know. I hope that isn't a problem." He nearly hadn't waited for Davy to respond. But Davy had. He had shoved the blonde away from him, snapping that of course it mattered. Davy didn't want to catch it. And then suddenly Davy came slamming back into himself. He felt wrong and disgusting and wretched. Cindy was still down there, making sounds that signaled to Davy she was having a good time. But she was drunk and Davy felt the need to rip his skin right off of himself.

"Stop, god, please, stop," Davy finally found his voice, but it wasn't loud enough for Cindy to hear.

She didn't stop just like he had almost not stopped.

"God, it fucking matters!" he suddenly shouted, memories confusing themselves in his head for a moment.

He saw the blonde where Cindy was for a split second and Davy shoved him backwards. He shoved Cindy off of him. She seemed bewildered.

"What's wrong?" she asked, a smile playing behind her eyes.

She was too drunk. Davy wanted to cry. He'd thought about that night, that damned fucking night, and now he needed to cry.

"D-don't touch me," Davy stammered, quickly fixing himself and doing his pants back up.

"What are you, a faggot?" Cindy's criticism cut Davy deep and he felt, for a moment, as if he'd been stabbed.

Davy needed to go home, to his own home, and so he opened the door, barreling out of the car. Lucky for him, Sarah had just parked in a driveway. Their driveway. Not his driveway. Davy wanted to cry. Somewhere in the back of his head, a rational voice was telling him to calm down. He was coming down from a high. Calm down. But he'd thought about that night, the night that he hadn't told anyone.

"What the hell, guy?" Cindy was following him out of the car.

Sarah seemed to be saying something too, but Davy just stared at Cindy, trying to think of a way to make her understand that he needed to go home, to his house, right now. Before he could speak though, Cindy doubled over and vomited on the ground. Davy stared, forgetting what was expected of people in that sort of situation. Sarah appeared at Cindy's side.

"Are you okay?" she asked her.

"Just tired," Cindy replied with a half-smile, before staggering forward.

Sarah grabbed her, preventing Cindy from a face plant on the pavement below. She glared at Davy, then her face softened.

"Are you…. Okay?" she seemed hesitant to ask.

"I'm sorry," it was the only thing Davy could think of to say.

Sarah seemed to approve of this answer and then took one of Cindy's arms.

"Can you help me get her inside?" Sarah asked.

Davy nodded, grabbing Cindy's other arm. He helped Sarah carry Cindy into the house, down a hallway, and into what Davy assumed was Cindy's room. Together, they dumped Cindy into the bed and Sarah covered her up. Then Davy followed Sarah out of the room. As they emerged from the hallway and into the living room, Davy found that his feet had given out on him. He fell flat on his ass. At that point, he couldn't take anything any more, and so the tears began to stream down his face. He knew he needed to get out of a stranger's house. He couldn't sit here and cry like this. But his legs wouldn't lift him up.

"Did you take something, Davy?" he was startled by Sarah.

She was crouched in front of him, looking at him with genuine concern.

"Ecstasy," Davy replied.

"Okay," Sarah nodded her head, "I'm going to help you onto our couch and then I'm going to get you some water."

Davy could only nod in response. He felt Sarah lift him up and he struggled to get his feet to cooperate with him. He felt ridiculous and horrible. He wanted to go home. Sarah sat him down on a couch just like she had said she would before disappearing from Davy's view. She shortly returned with a glass of water. Handing it to him, she sat down next to him.

"Drink it all, you're dehydrated," she instructed.

Davy did as he was told and drank the whole glass. It felt refreshing but his skin was still crawling and he still wanted to rip it all off. When he was finished, Sarah took the glass away. Then she came back, sitting down next to him again.

"Do you want anything else?" she asked him.

Davy shook his head. He wanted to go home but the more he thought about it the more he was unsure whether or not he could get home from here. He didn't know where he was.

"Do you want a ride home?" Sarah asked him.

"Do you know how to get to 334 North Beechwood?" Davy replied.

"No, I'm sorry," Sarah shook her head.

Although it wasn't that big of a deal, Davy started to cry again. He felt Sarah place a hand on his back.

"You can use the phone. Call someone," Sarah suggested to him.

"I can't go home like this, not to him," Davy sobbed.

"To who?" Sarah probed.

"Peter. My f-friend Peter. He has AIDS and it shouldn't have been him who got it first," Davy couldn't hold anything back.

He hated himself and he hated Peter and he hated AIDS.

"Oh…," Sarah sounded as if she were suddenly muffled, "Are… you a homosexual?"

"I do both," Davy said it as if it explained everything and, in some sense, it did.

"Men and women?" Sarah asked.

Davy nodded, not having the strength to say anything.

"I see," she said then disappeared from Davy's side.

She returned with a blanket, which she draped across Davy's shoulders. She also placed a box of tissues in Davy's lap.

"Look, Davy, I don't know you. And I know you don't know me. But I'm a therapist. That's my job. And I can see that you're in some sort of distress. So I'm going to make you a deal. Is that okay?" Sarah said to him.

"Yeah," Davy's voice sounded pathetic to him.

"Alright. I'll let you stay the night but you gotta tell me what's bugging you. Even if it's really personal. I won't judge or tell anyone. I'll even forget what you tell me, if that's what you want. But that's the deal," Sarah sounded so sure of herself.

But Davy was confused.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" he wondered.

"Because you freaked out in the car and then fell down crying on my living room floor. You're in some sort of crisis, you're coming down from ecstasy, I'm a little worried. Even if you're a stranger, you seem like a nice guy," Sarah explained.

Davy nodded, as if all this made sense, and to him, it did. Sarah seemed like an angel sent by God himself.

"Okay," Davy agreed.

"Good. You start talking whenever you're ready. I'll only listen, I won't talk," Sarah seemed to promise.

"Okay," Davy repeated.

He took a moment to listen to the silence of this strange house. It was different than the silence of the pad.

"My friend, Peter, he's just gay. He doesn't like girls. But that's it, difference wise. We like to go around, I guess, you understand?" Davy felt disgusting but mostly he felt odd, attempting to bare his soul to a stranger.

But his thoughts were still all confused, his mind and body still clinging to the little white pill that Tommy had given to him what felt like ages ago. If he thought hard enough, he could pretend that Sarah was anyone. In fact, she was beginning to remind him a lot of his mother. In response to Davy's question, Sarah simply nodded, indicating to him that she understood.

"We weren't… loose, just liked to have fun. But… but he's the one who got it. He got AIDS and not me," Davy fought not to cry again and he took one of the tissues out of the box.

He blew his nose.

"But you don't just sleep with men. You sleep with women, too. Why are you so upset?" Sarah wondered.

She didn't sound upset or disgusted or confused. She sounded concerned. It had a quality of professionalism to it as well. Davy wondered if he should stop now, should just suck it up and call home. Get a ride home. Back to the pad. But Sarah knew almost all of the story now. He might as well finish it up.

"I should have been the one to get it, at least first," Davy sighed, the tears brimming over, "I-I was with this guy. And he… he, uh, we were getting really friendly, pretty quickly. A-and before we did anything, he, uh, he told me he had it. This guy didn't… didn't really wait for me to tell him no before he started to try to do things. To me. But I pushed him away."

Davy's breath hitched and he couldn't stop himself from sobbing.

"He said it didn't matter he had it. But I told him it did and I left. And it should be me with AIDS, not Peter. He's too sweet and nice and all I am is a slut, who can't even stick to one side. I'm a fraud and I should have gotten it, not him, he didn't even get a chance to say no- I, fuck-," Davy broke off because he couldn't speak through the tears any longer.

Sarah placed a hand onto Davy's back, silently sitting there while Davy cried. She let him calm down a little before she spoke.

"Have you told your friend about your experience?" Sarah asked.

Her voice held a gentleness to it that Davy found extremely calming. He couldn't find the words to answer her question so he just shook his head.

"I think you should tell your friend what you told me," Sarah stated, then she stood up.

It almost startled Davy.

"Can I get you anything else before I go to bed?" she asked.

"No, thank you," Davy replied.

"Alright, then you just lay down and go to sleep. The lights will be off in a minute," Sarah instructed him.

Davy nodded and realized how tired he was. Every part of him ached. As Sarah disappeared, Davy curled up into a ball on the couch. The lights flicked off and he heard footsteps receding down the hallway. His skin slowly stopped crawling and he slipped into unconsciousness.

When Davy opened his eyes, natural light was streaming into the living room. He sat up and immediately regretted it. There was a bees hive in his head, with all the bees stinging his brain.

"Hung over?" Sarah appeared from nowhere.

Everything from last night was slowly coming back to him and Davy felt a flurry of embarrassment. He must have gone red by the way Sarah quickly said, "Look, anything you said last night. It's forgotten."

"I'm so sorry about last night," Davy told her, "Is Cindy alright?"

Sarah seemed touched that Davy remembered Cindy's name.

"Cindy's fine. She's not up yet, and probably won't be till noon. And she'll be majorly hungover. Nothing a good meal won't fix," Sarah laughed.

She then placed a glass of water in Davy's right hand and a Tylenol in his other.

"Call your friend. The phone's in the kitchen," Sarah told him, "I have to head into work, but I hope you get home safely."

"Thank you very much," Davy repeated.

Sarah nodded, told Davy the address of the house, and then disappeared out the front door. How could she trust him in her house, alone? Or, practically alone. Davy took the Tylenol and drank his water. He stood up, folded the blanket he had slept with last night, straightened up the couch, and then went into the kitchen. The phone was hanging on the wall and Davy picked it up, dialing the pad's number. Micky picked up the phone.

"Hello?" his voice was so soothing, Davy almost thought he'd cry.

"Micky, can you come pick me up?" Davy asked.

"You get lucky?" Davy could almost picture Micky's eyebrows wiggling.

"Not exactly," Davy admitted, "But I need a ride home."

Micky agreed to come pick Davy up in the car so Davy gave Micky the address. While Davy was waiting for Micky to arrive, he fished in his pants for his wallet and placed all the money he had in there on the kitchen table. It only amounted to thirty-two dollars and forty-five cents. But it was the only thing Davy could think to do. He didn't know Sarah or Cindy's last name. And he frankly never wanted to talk to either one of them again. He felt extremely grateful to Sarah for her help last night but with that gratitude came an overwhelming sense of embarrassment. Yet, despite all the mixed emotions and the headache, Davy had made a solemn promise to himself. When Peter came home today, Davy was going to have a talk with him. About everything.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HAPPY HALLOWEEN to all who read this! :) Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and have a happy halloween. Once again, this story is as factually accurate as a high school student can get, so I implore anyone out there who is interested in learning what the 1980s AIDS crisis was really like, check out Randy Shilts's And the Band Played On. You can look forward to another chapter up sometime next week, hopefully. Feel free to leave a like and a review! All are welcome! Have a wonderful day & happy halloween!


	8. Chapter 8

They put up the tree on Christmas Eve, just like they always did. Micky, Peter, Davy, and Mike. All standing around a medium sized tree. It brought Micky a sense of normalcy and he clung to that with every ounce of strength his body had in it. He had gone out and acquired the Christmas tree himself, enjoying the moment alone. It hadn't been all that busy, due in part to the fact that it was Christmas Eve after all. Mike had gotten the box of decorations out of the garage, a feat that required nerves of steel thanks to the spider infestation that had grown over the summer. Davy had baked cookies and dinner, his skills having improved immensely over this past six months. Peter had helped Davy for a little bit, but he had become so tired recently. Even walking on the beach now tired him out more than it should have. He ended up sleeping most of the afternoon, curled up on the couch under a blanket that Mike had covered him with. But he had mustered enough energy to help decorate the tree and after it was all set up, Peter seemed his normal bouncy self.

"It looks nice, doesn't it?" Peter asked, hands placed confidently on his hips, a bright shine to his eyes.

"It's wonderful," Davy agreed, head tilted up so he could see the top of the tree.

"Beautiful," Mike nodded.

"And Davy put the star on. Without falling on his face," Micky chimed in, nudging Davy in the ribs with his elbow.

"Oi, don't give me a reason to kick your ass," Davy warned, but Micky knew he was only joking.

"My money's on Davy," Peter stage-whispered to Mike.

"A good choice," Mike nodded sagely.

"C'mon, guys, back me up here," Micky whined, going along with the gag.

"Uh-uh, Mick, yer on your own, man. Davy's just obviously the better choice," Mike insisted.

Peter then pulled Micky into a sudden kiss, laughter in his chest. It felt good, the spontaneity of the moment. From the corner of his eye, Micky saw Davy grab onto Mike.

"Ew, gross, get a room," Mike pretended to be disgusted, although Micky could hear the smile in his voice.

"Mike, let's kiss and do them one better," Davy piped up.

Micky liked having Peter so close to him, their lips pressed together. He wanted to melt into Peter, become one with the man he loved. But of course Micky felt the same way towards his other two friends. They could stay here, in this house, forever. Be together without any worries. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Peter pulling slightly away from Micky to cough. He coughed into the crook of his elbow, his body seeming to shake with the force. Micky looked at him and felt the beginning tendrils of reality start to enter his bubble of pretend normalcy, the bubble of happiness.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, just had a tickle in my throat," Peter assured him, "It's really nothing. I feel great. In fact, I'm starved."

Micky glanced at his other two friends, concerned looks exchanged in a very quick moment of silence.

"Then let's go eat," Davy clapped his hands together, shaking off any sort of worry he might be feeling, "I didn't slave over this roast all day for it not to get eaten."

"It looks so good," Peter commented as he followed Davy.

Micky looked at Mike, who looked right back to Micky. The two exchanged a series of worried glances once more that communicated to both of them their concern. Was Peter right in assuming that his cough was nothing, or could it be the precursor to something else? Another opportunistic infection, perhaps.

"We'll worry about it after Christmas," Mike whispered to Micky, rubbing his hand up and down Micky's arm for a second.

"Give him Christmas, nothing to worry about, I remember," Micky nodded, in the same quiet fashion.

Then they went and joined Davy and Peter at the dinner table. The food that Davy had prepared was delicious and Micky decided that he'd clean up after dinner. The meal was accompanied by mild talk about nothing in particular, a meandering conversation that allowed all four parties to forget everything besides the then and there. Once dinner was finished, Micky collected the dishes and did the washing up as the others grabbed their presents for one another. Micky grabbed his after he finished putting away the dishes. Then they all sat down on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, in a little circle.

"Okay, so, I want to go first this year," Davy stated, before handing out a gift to each of his three friends.

Micky and Mike both looked at Peter expectantly. For a moment, Peter looked pained but he quickly hid that with a smile. Micky watched Peter as he carefully tore open the wrapping paper his gift was bound in. Then he held up a rather worn looking, brown scarf. Peter glanced up at Davy, as did Micky himself. What was it's story?

"It was my grandfather's. He gave it to me when I was twelve, after I got chicken pox. He wore that scarf during his time in the army, during World War Two. He claims that it once stopped a bullet from entering his heart, but I don't know if that's true or not. It's thought to be lucky and I thought you should have it," Davy explained.

Peter looked down at the scarf and Micky could tell that he was more than overjoyed. The bassist was quick to put on the scarf, wrapping it snugly around his neck.

"Well, if it can stop a bullet, maybe it can work some other miracles," Peter beamed.

Davy smiled and then turned his gaze to Mike. Mike opened his gift, which happened to be a harmonica. Mike thanked Davy and the joke was made that adding a harmonica into Mike's country songs would make him the biggest country singer in the known universe. Davy seemed very pleased with Mike's reaction. Then it came turn for Micky to open his gift. Davy had gotten him a shirt that had no sleeves and a star pattern on them, with a little lace at the neck and hem. Micky loved it and told Davy exactly that.

Mike went next in the gift giving ritual. He had gotten Peter new guitar strings and told him that he'd fix up Peter's bass tomorrow evening. Peter seemed just as touched as he had been with Davy's present, reaching over to give Mike a half-hug before he safely stowed the new guitar strings up on the nearest bookshelf, just to make sure they didn't get lost. Davy received a pocket mirror that had his initials engraved in it on the back and Micky got a spoon that spun around thanks to a small motor in its handle.

"Where'd you even find something that ridiculous?" Peter managed to say through his laughter, tears streaming on his cheeks.

The spoon had sent everyone off into a laughing fit.

"I had to send away for it. I found it advertised in a magazine," Mike explained, his laughs subsiding.

"Oh, god," Davy wheezed, hands pressed against his sides.

Once they had all settled down, Micky handed out his own presents. He had gotten Mike a book on how to fix car engines, telling him that if Mike wanted to, they could work on giving their car a few upgrades together. Mike seemed to appreciate this very much and Micky felt very pleased with himself. For Davy, Micky had purchased him some new pants. But they weren't your average new pants. These were entirely made out of leather and Davy joked that now he and Micky could match. It was true that Micky owned his own pair of leather pants and it was purely this reason that Micky had bought Davy his own pair.

"Now you can't make fun of me for wearing my pair," Micky had laughed.

"Fat chance, I'll never stop," Davy had hit back.

And finally, for Peter, Micky hadn't bought him anything but instead he had made Peter a photo album of all four of them. Peter tore open the wrapping and quickly thumbed through the album. He said nothing as he flipped through it and Micky was aware of Mike and Davy both looking at him with puzzled expressions. They were probably wondering what he had put into the photo album.

"It's an album. Of us. All four of us. Our little family. I took all of those pictures, or at least most of them. Davy took the ones of me," Micky explained, beginning to feel just a little on edge.

Peter shut the book and looked up at Micky. It was then that he realized Peter was crying, little streaks of tears decorating his cheeks.

"Is something wrong, Peter?" Davy asked, concerned by this sudden change in mood.

"No, no, nothing's wrong," Peter assured his friends as he wiped away the tears, "I just… thank you, Micky, this is wonderful."

Peter looked down at the photo album, hand fingering the brown scarf, and smiled broadly. Micky felt a rush of relief. He watched as Peter scooted backwards a little, so that he could look at all three of them.

"I'm so grateful for all of your presents. They mean so much to me," Peter said and then handed each of them a little box that was neatly wrapped in gift wrapping, "I had no idea what to get you three this year because I didn't know how to express how much I love all three of you."

Micky looked at his wrapped box, then glanced over at Davy's and Mike's. They all appeared to be the same size and they were all wrapped in the same sort of wrapping. Micky tore back the paper to reveal an unmarked box. For a moment, Micky's heart leapt into his throat. It couldn't be what Micky was thinking. With his palms sweaty, Micky opened the box to reveal a bracelet. It was just a thick silver chain with a small silver plate connecting the two ends, making it an actual bracelet. On the silver plate, there was an inscription. It read: _MD + PT + DJ + MN_. It was all four of their initials. By the little glances that Micky got of Mike's and Davy's presents, it seemed that Peter had given them all the same bracelet.

"It has our initials on it. So we're always with each other, no matter what," Peter explained.

No matter what. Micky replied those words in his head over and over again. No matter what.

"Wow, Pete, this is so cool," Davy said as he put on his bracelet.

"That's an understatement," Micky whistled, putting on his own bracelet even though his hand shook a little.

"How much this cost ya?" Mike's brows were knitted together slightly and Micky could tell that their Southern sounding friend was fighting the urge to cry.

"It doesn't matter," the smile on Peter's face seemed infectious, "All that matters is that you guys know that I love you all. And I appreciate you all sticking with me through these rough times."

"Peter, we'd never leave you," Micky assured him.

"Yeah, man, we all love you just as much as you love us," Davy agreed.

"We know that you love us," Mike nodded, quietly slipping on his bracelet.

They sat there for a moment in front of the Christmas tree in a comfortable silence. Then Davy stood up and began picking up all the trash. Micky noticed how he wiped the tears from his face when he thought no one else was looking at him.

"Let's watch a movie," Mike suggested as Davy finished up picking up the last of the trash.

"I can make popcorn," Micky leapt to his feet, already heading for the kitchen despite the fact that no one had green lighted the idea of watching a movie.

As he left the circle, Peter and Mike began discussing which movie they should watch and Davy went outside to put the trash in the garbage can. The rest of the evening was spent watching a movie and eating popcorn. The whole time, Micky kept fingering the bracelet on his wrist. It made him feel so close to his friends. After the credits began to crawl across the television screen, Mike stood up and stretched.

"I think it's time we all head off to bed," he announced.

Peter was already asleep so Micky decided not to wake him. Instead, Micky just picked Peter up and Davy helped put him to bed.

The next morning, the gang got up, got dressed, and loaded themselves up into their car. They didn't even stop to eat any breakfast, since they'd be eating almost as soon as they got to Micky's childhood home. Since Micky was lucky enough to have his family living in L.A., the gang alway enjoyed a relaxing Christmas Day with the Dolenz's. And that meant eating a lot of food. Which always appealed to Micky. It wasn't long before Mike was pulling up the driveway and Micky couldn't wait to see his parents. And see Coco. He suddenly felt someone holding his hand. It was Peter. Although he was looking straight ahead, Micky could see the smile on his face. Micky squeezed Peter's hand in return.

"Are you two coming, or what?" Davy asked.

Micky hadn't even realized that Mike and Davy had already gotten out of the car.

"Yeah, we're coming," Peter chirped before clambering over Micky and out of the car.

"Ouch," Micky whined, unfolding himself out of the backseat and out of the car himself, "Did you have to knee my kidney?"

"Don't be such a baby, Micky," Davy rolled his eyes.

Peter came over to Micky and gave him a quick hug.

"Sorry if I kneed your kidney," he said, pecking Micky on the cheek.

"Can we go inside now? Or are you two gonna stand out here kissin' till it's New Year's?" Mike asked.

Laughing amongst themselves, the gang went up to the front door and Micky knocked. Almost immediately, Micky's mother threw it open, her arms already seeking for a body to pull into a hug.

"Boys! Oh, my lovely boys!" Micky's mother exclaimed upon seeing who was on her front porch.

She quickly squeezed Micky and kissed him on the forehead, before shoving him inside. She did the same to Mike and Davy, but paused upon seeing Peter.

"Oh, Peter, how are you feeling?" Micky's mother asked, hands placing themselves firmly upon Peter's shoulders.

"I'm feeling better than expected, Mrs. Dolenz," Peter replied, offering Micky's mother a small smile.

"Oh, you're just a saint, an absolute saint, you know that," Micky's mother exclaimed, pulling Peter into a hug that Micky thought was just a little too tight.

"Mom, can you calm down? You're gonna strangle him to death if you keep that up," Micky said to his mother.

His mom released Peter and gave Micky a glare, before ushering everyone into the living room.

"How can I calm down when I know that my son and his friends are starving," Micky's mother absentmindedly said as she did so, "I mean, for Christ's sake, Micky, aren't you supposed to be feeding him?"

She lovingly patted Peter's shoulder.

"Betty, will you leave the boys alone?" Micky's father piped up from a chair.

"If I leave these boys alone, Nick, they'll die from starvation," Betty replied.

"We're really okay, Mrs. Dolenz," Mike assured Micky's mother.

By the look he had on, Micky could tell that Mike was ready to go back to the pad at all costs. Micky couldn't resist the urge to smile.

"Mom, where's Coco?" Micky asked, anxious to see his little sister, his thoughts doing a near 360 turn.

"Oh, she had to pick up her special friend," Betty rolled her eyes, "I told your sister, just bring your friend over here to stay the night, but she got all flustered and evaded answering me."

"Will she be here soon?" Micky pressed.

"I don't know," Betty shrugged her shoulders and then turned to Peter and Davy.

"Would you lovely boys mind helping me finish breakfast?" she asked.

"Course, Mrs. Dolenz," Peter nodded.

"Though maybe you don't want Peter helping much, he's not much of a cook," Davy warned, following Peter and Micky's mom into the kitchen.

Left alone with just Mike, Micky turned to share what he thought was a sort of comical moment, only to find that Mike had already sat down on the couch next to Micky's father. They seemed to be in an easy discussion about the sports game that was on. Micky sighed. Coco couldn't get here soon enough. Micky took a moment to wander into the study, a room that was just for books and a desk. But on one of the shelves, there were a variety of photo albums. Micky took out one in particular. It was the first one he had ever made. Photography had been Micky's second love, next to music, and his mother's obsession of capturing her children's lives via photo albums had naturally been passed down to Micky, whether he liked it or not.

The first one he had ever began working on was the day after Coco had told their family that she liked girls. He remembered that when he first found out, he was extremely happy. At the time, Micky had been convinced that, at least for a while, he'd be the only gay person around. But, low and behold, there was his own little sister. For a whole four months, Micky had taken various pictures of Coco and himself. Micky flipped through the pages until he came to a photograph where Coco was on top of Micky's shoulders. In the background, there was some sort of parade going on. She'd only been thirteen and Micky himself had still been adjusting to being seventeen. They had snuck out of the house on an early Wednesday morning and Micky had stolen their father's car.

Driving all day and all night, they made it to San Francisco just in time for their first gay pride parade. Looking at how young the both of them were, Micky couldn't help but laugh a little at how stupid that was. He'd made the decision on a whim, hadn't told their parents anything, and had taken his very little sister to a whole different city. All by himself. But it had been a great weekend and Coco had loved it. Although she still teased him about child endangerment from time to time, always making sure that Micky knew he was to blame for her rebellious streak. Like brother, like sister. In fact, Micky found it hard to believe that there was any sort of age difference between himself and his sister. They were practically twins.

"Hey," Coco's voice startled Micky.

He nearly dropped the photo album, but he didn't, and instead quickly put it back on the shelf before turning to face Coco.

"Where's your special friend?" Micky asked, hoping Coco wouldn't notice he had been looking at the photos.

"She's at the table. Breakfast's ready," Coco replied, eying Micky up and down, "You were looking at the pride picture, I can tell."

"How!? It's not like it physically changes me," Micky exclaimed.

"You look at it every Christmas, you dope," Coco rolled her eyes, glancing behind her for a moment before coming closer to Micky, "Anyways, I like remembering that weekend. It was fun. If not dangerous."

"I don't look at it _every_ year," Micky weakly protested.

"Uh-huh," Coco didn't seem entirely convinced, "Well, that doesn't matter right now. Right now, I have to ask you something."

"What is it?" Micky frowned, wondering what on earth Coco would want to ask him.

"I've been with this woman for a while now, her name's Beth, and she's the sweetest human alive. I love her, Micky, and I want her to move in with me," Coco explained.

"Whoa, wait, phone Beth?" Micky arched an eyebrow.

When calling Coco, occasionally the same woman named Beth would answer. Micky knew he shouldn't feel so surprised but he couldn't help it.

"Yeah, phone Beth," Coco nodded her head, a small smile lighting up her face.

"And you want her to move in with you? That's like… the equivalent of marrying her," Micky knew he shouldn't be as stunned as he was.

"I know, I know, but I… I want to spend the rest of my life with her, Micky. And I don't need your approval of her. But… I'd like to know if you think it'd be a good idea, us moving in together," Coco seemed to be really nervous.

Why was she nervous? She shouldn't be nervous.

"Why're you asking me, of all people, this sort of stuff?" Micky wondered.

"Because you've got experience with it," Coco's response threw Micky.

"What?"

"Yeah, with Peter. And I'm assuming Davy and Mike, but I'm no sneak," Coco elaborated.

"It's different with guys, Coco, I mean… our equivalent to marriage is when you try to bring monogamy into the situation, or a variation of it at least," Micky felt as if he were way out of his depth with this question, "Or maybe you buy a dog together. I've heard some guys buy a dog."

"Why are you so sweaty?" Coco asked him.

"I'm not sweaty," Micky lied, sounding far more defensive then he should have sounded.

"Me and Beth have been dating for five months now. We get along great, and I want to take the next step," Coco stated.

"Then ask her to move in," Micky sounded a little too defensive, yet again.

Why was he being so defensive? He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, wiping sweat off his palms and onto his jeans.

"You sound like you really like her, Coco, and if you're ready, then you gotta go for it. Love doesn't wait around for you. You gotta just… throw yourself into it," Micky said.

He felt ridiculous and stupid, sounding like some sort of half-assed fortune cookie.

"So you think I should ask her?" Coco prompted.

"I do, if you think you're ready, then what's there stopping you," Micky agreed.

"Oh, thanks, Micky!" Coco threw her arms around Micky's neck.

"Yeah, yeah, I know I'm the best big brother around," Micky said before pulling away from Coco and patting his stomach, "I'm hungry, so let's go eat. And I'll finally get to see the woman behind the phone."

"Please don't call her phone Beth," Coco begged.

"How else am I going to refer to her as?" Micky asked.

"Don't you dare call her phone Beth," Coco warned.

Micky simply grinned at Coco before dashing out of the study. He headed into the kitchen to find everyone sat down at the table, eating a variety of breakfast foods. These included eggs, pancakes, bacon, and coffee. Micky could already tell that his mother was trying to get Peter to eat seconds despite the fact that he hadn't even finished his first plate. A dark skinned woman with her hair curled around her shoulders sat next to Davy, who was amiably chatting with her.

"Phone Beth!" Micky greeted, taking the empty seat next to Peter.

That left the empty seat next to Beth for Coco, who quickly came into the kitchen only to glare at Micky as soon as he opened his mouth. She looked as if she'd, at any moment, leap over the table and strangle Micky. Beth looked at Micky and grinned, the smile lighting up her face.

"Wow, you really do look a lot like Coco. I thought she was just messing with me," Beth greeted.

"Now see, I don't see much of a similarity," Davy admitted.

"You need glasses then," Peter piped up before shoveling a forkful pancake into his mouth.

"Wait till I put on some makeup. I make a better girl than my sister does," Micky joked.

"I doubt that," Beth replied, eyes darting over in Coco's direction, her smile soft and loving.

The rest of the breakfast was spent in meandering chat, through which Micky found out that Beth worked at the Gay and Lesbian Center in L.A., helping homeless gay youth get back on their feet. And that there wasn't an animal alive that Beth didn't find adorable, in one way or another. Even lizards, which Micky found frankly baffling. How were lizards cute? You couldn't exactly pet them or snuggle with them. Peter had chimed in on the subject, saying that he liked lizards quite a bit. After breakfast had been consumed, Micky's mother cleaned up, refusing all help from everyone and anyone who offered. Despite this, Micky still helped his mother clean up.

Then it was time for games. They played Monopoly, but with teams as there weren't enough pieces for individual players. Mike and Davy won the first game by a landslide, with them owning the majority of the properties on the board by the time the game ended. They played again on the insistence of Beth, who then essentially won the second round for her and Coco by slyly bartering for properties throughout the game. After Monopoly, they played charades. After charades was lunch. Grilled cheese, tomato soup, apple juice. Hot coffee or tea afterwards. Later, Mike and Micky's father were talking as Davy and Beth decided upon a movie to watch. Coco was helping their mother clean up the dishes this time. Micky felt warm and happy. It was comforting to see his sister's life growing and it made him realize that his own life was going in a similar fashion. Maybe he and his friends didn't own a dog, but they were pretty much married to each other, in one way or another.

Cutting through his thoughts then was the sight of Peter slipping down the hallway. Where was he going in such a rush? Was something wrong? Wouldn't Peter have the sense to tell them if something was wrong? There was something nagging Micky and so he got up and followed Peter's footsteps. Micky found Peter in the bathroom, bent over the toilet and throwing up. Micky knelt down next to Peter, rubbing his back.

"Do you feel dizzy?" Micky asked after Peter had finished.

"N-no, I just, didn't feel so good all of a sudden," Peter replied, sitting down on the tiled floor, eyes closed.

His forehead was a little damp and Micky rested his palm on Peter's brow. He didn't feel, so no fever.

"Should I get you something?" Micky asked, removing his hand.

"No, no, I'm fine, Micky, really. It's just side effects, that's all," Peter brought his hands up to his temples and began rubbing them.

"Do you have a headache?" Micky asked him, trying to keep the fear at bay.

"Yeah," Peter confirmed, "But it's not that bad."

"Is anything else wrong?" Micky asked, figuring that it'd be better to know everything in one go then to have to keep on asking, one side effect at a time. It'd be more efficient anyways.

"I'm cold," Peter replied, "But I don't think that's supposed to be a side effect."

"Cold?" Micky frowned, trying to remember all of the side effects that AZT was supposed to have.

He couldn't remember whether or not being cold was one of the side effects. It might not even be anything, Peter could just be cold. It could be that simple. Get this guy a sweater. But how could anything be so simple these day? For a brief moment, Micky was gripped by a sudden and overwhelming sense of fear and anxiety. He couldn't breath and he couldn't think and he couldn't move. But it passed quickly. He didn't have time to panic.

"Like, physically cold or like sick cold?" Micky tried to clarify, reaching his hand up to place the back of his hand onto Peter's forehead again. Better safe then sorry.

"Um, I don't know," Peter admitted, "I think I'm just cold. No big deal."

He still didn't have a fever. So that was a good thing. He definitely didn't have a fever.

"You should just lay down. Take it easy," Micky suggested.

This whole month had been relatively busy for Peter and for the most part of it, he had been good. The side effects were there, that was for sure, but Peter seemed to be just like his old self these days, just a little more tired than usual. So maybe that was all sort of catching up to him now. No big deal. Rest him up and he'd be good as new.

"Yeah, I could use a nap," Peter admitted, his head briefly resting on the wall of the bathroom.

"Alright then, let's get you into bed," Micky helped Peter to his feet.

Coco's old bedroom was the one closest to the bathroom, so Micky took Peter into there, helping him into bed. Almost as soon as Peter's head hit the pillow, he seemed to be asleep. Micky stood by the bed for a moment, looking at how peaceful Peter looked while he was asleep. Briefly he wondered what Peter dreamt about, if he dreamt at all. Did he dream of nice things? A life he'd never get? Maybe he had nightmares. But there was no use in wondering about such things. So he decided it was high time one Micky Dolenz returned to the living room. Before he left, Micky planted a big kiss on Peter's forehead.

When he returned to the living room, his mom and sister had also joined the little band that was gathered around the television. Coco was sitting in Beth's lap, even though Micky thought that perhaps it'd be more comfortable for both of them if Beth sat on Coco's lap. They all seemed normal enough, just any other family sitting around the TV. Despite this, Micky knew that no one was paying any sort of attention to what was actually on the TV. Davy and Micky's mother were chatting, as were Mike and Micky's father, although Mike and his dad seemed to be engaged in a very animated conversation rather than just any old casual chat. That left Beth and Coco to entertain themselves. Micky sat down next to his sister and her soon-to-be housemate.

"Peter alright?" Coco asked.

Micky felt a pang of embarrassment at the realization that Coco had noticed his and Peter's disappearance. It was irrational and brief but it had still been there.

"Yeah, he just didn't feel well," Micky replied.

"How has the AZT been treating him?" Beth asked.

"Some days are better than others," Micky admitted, "But mostly, he's been fine. Just more tired than usual."

"AZT can be a bitch," Beth commented, "But at the rate that the government is working, it'll be the only drug available to the public for a long time to come. I mean, if you ask me, the government is being purposefully slow in order to get rid of the homosexual population. I mean, I'd bet money that they were the ones responsible for the first outbreak, and that the lesbian community is next."

"Will you stop that? You sound nuts," Coco gently hit Beth on the shoulder.

"I'm telling you, Coco, the government hides wars from us, do you really think they don't have the balls to kill off a whole section of the population? They did it to the Indians, so you know they've done it before. Why not do it again? Once every gay man has AIDS, the government will implement some other crippling African disease to wipe out us lesbians," Beth insisted.

She seemed so sure and confident in her belief and Micky had to admit that it did make a lot of sense. He almost believed her.

"I can't believe I'm going to have to live in the same house with you," Micky could tell that Coco was trying to sound annoyed and exasperated but it came out as more of a giggle.

"When did you ask her?!" Micky exclaimed, suddenly realizing the implications of Coco's comment.

"I asked her just before you came back," Coco seemed bemused.

"It was real romantic, she just asked me if I'd like to move in with her and that was it," the tone of Beth's voice held a playful annoyance in it.

"What did you want me to so?" Coco asked.

"Something at least a little more romantic," Beth replied.

"Moving in together is the lesbian equivalent to marriage," Micky reminded his sister.

"Is it?" Beth frowned, "I thought it was when we bought a cat together."

"I'm gay, I just go by what I hear," Micky shrugged.

Coco punched him then in the shoulder. It stung a little and Micky made an exaggerated face.

"Ouch, Coco," Micky whined, "Mom, Coco hit me!"

The look on Coco's face made Micky almost break his whiny character.

"Coco, you know your brother is fragile," Micky's mother said, "Don't hit him."

"Oh come on, that's not fair," Micky protested, his character all but forgotten.

"Ha ha, shows you to be a whiny baby," Coco teased.

Micky laughed. It felt like it had been forever since he and his sister were able to just casually joke around like this. Micky found it sort of weird that he and his sister always reverted back to some sort of childish mentality on Christmas Day when the whole family got together. He noticed then how Davy was smirking at him and Micky suddenly felt a little embarrassed about how he had acted. Only a little bit though and the feeling quickly passed. He had acted worse in front of his friends before. Hell, he's been drunk in front of his friends before, so his mocking actions were nothing new to them.

The rest of the day went by pretty quickly. Micky's father convinced the guys, minus Peter, to go outside and play some football. Coco and Beth insisted they play, so the teams were three versus three. Micky's dad, Micky, and Mike were on one team and on the other team was Davy, Coco, and Beth. Coco's team won hands down. Then they drank hot chocolate and Peter eventually rejoined them in the living room, announcing that he felt a lot better. At dinner, Micky's mother made sure everyone ate way too much, taking it slower than most meals since somehow Micky knew that his mother knew about Peter throwing up earlier in the day. Dessert was chocolate cake and pumpkin pie. During dessert, Micky picked up on Peter coughing. It wasn't anything big, just a little cough, almost as if he were clearing his throat. It made Micky feel fear prickle the back of his mind. He made a mental note to ask Dr. Cole about it after the holidays. If it got any worse, Micky would just take Peter to the hospital himself.

The night was growing old and it was about 10:04 PM. Peter was already asleep, his head resting on Mike's shoulder. Coco kept yawning, as did Davy. The two of them almost seemed to be in some sort of yawn battle. Micky laughed a little bit at that thought. It was a ridiculous notion but he could imagine Davy trying to engage in just some sort petty fight.

"Do you kids want to stay here for the night, or are you guys going to head home?" Micky's father asked.

"If you ask me, they should all just stay here for the night, one of them might fall asleep at the wheel," his mother grumbled.

She always made the pitch that the kids should stay the night rather than go home this late. But every time, the invitation is declined.

"It's not like we live far, mom," Micky pointed out.

"At least let me make you all some coffee before you leave then," Micky's mother insisted, getting up and going into the kitchen.

Mike glanced at Micky, indicating Peter with a slight tilt of his head, and Micky just shrugged, indicating that it probably wouldn't matter if they stayed for coffee. Mike seemed to understand this because he gently nodded his head. In a short while, Micky's mother returned with coffee's for everyone except for herself and Peter. They talked quietly about nothing in particular as they all drank their coffee, until they were all finished. Then Coco and Beth said their goodbyes. Micky, Davy, and their parents showed the two women to the door. Mike was still sitting with Peter asleep on his shoulder. After Beth and Coco left, Micky and Davy agreed it was time they headed home. So Mike woke Peter up and they headed to the car, but Micky lingered for a moment.

"Thanks for having us over, mom," Micky said to his mom, squeezing her tightly.

"It's always a pleasure to have you and your sister home again," his mother agreed, "I wish you kids would visit more often."

"And give us some grandchildren, for christ sakes, your mom and I aren't getting younger," his father chipped in.

"Dad," Micky shook his head, a smile on his face.

"What? Both you and Coco could adopt some kids. And if the state has some sort of problem with that, I'll adopt the kids for you," his father mumbled, shrugging his shoulders just slightly.

"Nick, you just keep your mouth shut," Betty shook her head at her husband, but Micky noticed that his parents were holding hands.

It made him smile, a warm feeling spreading throughout his body. His father then kissed his mother on the cheek and said goodbye to Micky before going back into the house, leaving Micky and his mother alone.

"Now, Micky, baby, you take care of Peter, alright. You call us if you need anything, and I mean anything at all, do you understand?" Micky's mother continued.

"I know, mom," Micky nodded, "I understand."

"You just call me up and I'll be there for you, all of you, no matter how late or early it is. You and Peter and the other two are all so brave for facing this," Micky's mother still went on, tears making her eyes misty.

"I know, mom," Micky repeated and then kissed his mother on the cheek to prevent her from saying anything else, "I love you, mom."

"I love you, too, Micky, my sweet little boy," his mother embraced Micky, her face squished against his chest.

"I'll call you soon, mom, and we'll visit again, too," Micky told her.

His mother nodded, kissed him on the cheek, and then waved him off.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Howdy all! My apologies for such a late update. School has been very hectic so I haven't had time to write and edit. But here's a new chapter and here's to the hopes that I'll be able to post a little more frequently. Once again, this story is as factually accurate as a high school student can get, so I implore anyone out there who is interested in learning what the 1980s AIDS crisis was really like, check out Randy Shilts's And the Band Played On. This chapter was one of my more favorite chapters, although there's a lot in store for future chapters that were fun to write as well. Feel free to leave a favorite and a comment! All are welcome! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and I hope you have a wonderful day!


	9. Chapter 9

The sweet voice of Frankie Valli poured into the pad as Micky cranked up the stereo. Peter sat on the couch, nursing some disgusting smoothie that Mike was forcing him to finish, all because a nurse at the hospital had suggested it. The smoothie was supposed to help keep on weight and help provide protein, or something of that nature. It tasted like vomit though and made him want to gag. Peter watched as Micky leapt up onto the coffee table, tumbling a few magazines onto the floor in the process. He threw his arms wide open, as if pleading to Peter or some unseen audience.

"There ain't no good in our goodbyes. True love takes a lot trying. Oh, I'm crying," Micky sang before pretending to play a guitar as a rift sounded on the radio, "Let's hang on, to what we've got!"

Peter burst into laughter as Micky fell slightly off the coffee table, still singing despite the inconvenience.

"Baby! Baby! Let's hang on to what we've got!" Micky continued.

"Turn that racket down, Micky!" Mike snapped as he came into the living room area.

"Don't shut me out," Micky went on singing, this time pretending to plead with Mike.

Mike shook his head at Micky and then turned his gaze upon Peter, who shifted slightly under it.

"And you, stop messin' around and drink that," Mike gestured towards the smoothie Peter was still trying to avoid.

"But it tastes horrible, Mike," Peter whined, hoping that perhaps Mike would just let him dump the horrid stuff down the sink.

"Don't matter what it tastes like, you just drink it up and then ya can get something sweet to eat," Mike replied, before turning back to Micky, "I'm going out, so you gotta watch Peter. Make sure he finishes his drink. Davy will be home soon with groceries and dinner."

"Don't let go girl, we got a lot!" Micky continued to croon, pointing at Mike repeatedly.

Peter couldn't help but laugh at the scene, finding it very funny. Micky certainly was committed to his lipsyncing this evening.

"Micky, Jesus, will you please turn down the radio," Mike nearly shouted.

Micky faltered slightly, an eyebrow raised. Frankie Valli's voice began to fade.

"Jeez, man, what bug crawled up your ass," Micky said as the song changed on the radio.

"I gotta go," Mike ignored Micky's comment, "I'll see you guys later."

"Tell John to dig the bug out of your ass," Peter called after Mike.

Unfortunately for Peter, his comment was either not heard or Mike just flat out ignored it. But at least Micky found it funny. He laughed and then flopped down on the couch next to Peter.

"Is he really going to see John?" Micky asked.

"Probably," Peter shrugged, "It has been a while since they last met up, as far as I know."

"What? Do you spy on him?" Micky arched an eyebrow.

"No," Peter shook his head, "I just worry about him."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Micky pushed himself off the couch and went over to the radio to change the station. A few minutes passed and then Davy came through the front door. Two large grocery bags were hanging off of both his arms, a pizza box balanced precariously in his hands.

"Whoa, I didn't think you'd be bringing home the good stuff," Micky commented, coming over to help Davy by taking the pizza box.

"Well, I knew Mike would be out so I thought, what he doesn't know won't hurt him," Davy went over to the cabinets to hastily put away the food and foodstuffs that he had purchased.

"Aren't I in for a treat tonight," Peter whistled, "What's the occasion?"

"I know you hate those smoothies that Mike's been forcing you to drink, so I thought we could live a little," Davy shrugged, before slapping Micky away from the box, "Hey, wait till me and Peter get some before you make everything disappear."

"I gave up my undying passion for magic years ago, David, I'm offended you didn't remember," Micky gasped, sounding as shocked as he could in the moment.

Peter tried to finish the rest of the smoothie but couldn't stomach it. He only drank about two thirds of it before he decided to just dump the rest of it down the drain. The three of them then ate dinner at the table, Micky retelling a story about how one time his parents took him and Coco to a farm upstate, and how he had ridden a cow into a fence before breaking his arm. Thanks to Micky's story, Davy nearly had milk come out his nose, a sight that Peter found incredibly hilarious. After dinner, Davy cleaned up while Micky and Peter settled down on the couch. A slight chest rattling cough caused Peter to raise his elbow up to his mouth, to cover it. He could feel Micky's eyes burning holes into his skin, but Peter knew the cough was nothing. Nothing at all. He was just clearing his throat. It wasn't a real cough.

"So, hey, Micky, do you wanna know what other special treat I brought home for us?" Davy asked casually as he pulled up one of the armchairs, moving it closer to the couch.

"Sure," Micky seemed curious.

Peter knew that he sure as hell was. He hadn't missed the specific wording Davy had used. Whatever the special treat was, Davy certainly didn't mean for it to be a special treat for Peter. Which made him guess that it was probably pot. Davy reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint.

"I snagged it from Jimmy, a friend of mine, when we saw each other at the grocery store," Davy explained.

"Oh, nice," Micky took the joint from Davy and dug around in his pockets until he found his lighter.

Peter watched as Micky lit the end and took a drag, before handing it over to back to Davy. Davy took a drag and grinned. They passed it back again, between themselves, and Peter felt a little left out.

"Here, let me have that," Peter said after a moment.

Davy and Micky exchanged a look, one that Peter wasn't sure how to interpret. A small part of him wanted to feel upset, but he did understand their hesitation.

"C'mon, it isn't as if I'm gonna live to be killed by lung cancer," Peter joked.

By the look on Micky's face, his joke hadn't been all that funny. Micky paled and his jaw clenched. But Peter's comment hadn't seemed to affect Davy in the same way. He chuckled a little, sounding hollow almost, before leaning forward and handing Peter the joint.

"I guess you're right," he agreed, despite the slight glare Micky shot him.

"Thanks," Peter said.

It was the first time he'd done any sort of drug for about three months now, besides obviously the medical variety. Granted, it wasn't as if prior to his diagnosis he was a drug enthusiast, but he did enjoy the occasional smoke or trip. As he inhaled the smoke into his lungs, he felt a tickle in his throat and he began to cough.

"Are you alright?" Micky instantly asked.

"Yeah, fine," Peter nodded his head, passing on the joint, "It just got me."

Peter wished Micky would stop looking at him as if he were some sort of child. It wasn't as if he were a fragile china doll. He had felt fine all day, minus a slight ache to his body and a looming headache.

"It's been a while," Davy nodded, seeming to take Peter on his word that he was fine.

Although Peter did notice a glance he threw in Micky's direction. But nonetheless, Peter ignored it. He was an adult and it was true, the only thing that would kill him now would be one bad hospitalization or an accident. The trio talked absently as they smoked, which didn't last all that long. Then they just continued to talk. At one point, Peter realized that he was shaking. It didn't seem like Micky or Davy noticed, but Peter couldn't tell if he was cold or not. He excused himself and got a blanket from the closet. The night continued to grow old and the later it got, the worse Peter began to feel. He must have fallen asleep at one point, because one moment he had been listening to Micky and Davy talking about pugs or something and the next moment Davy had one of his tambourines and was showing Micky how to play it. Peter was feeling very sick. No, not sick. Hot. He was hot. He threw the blanket off of him and stumbled to his feet.

"Everything alright, Peter?" Davy asked.

Peter shook his head. What sort of stupid question was that?

"No, of course it's not," he snapped.

"You're shaking," Micky observed.

"I don't feel good," Peter stated.

Suddenly, Micky and Davy disappeared from the floor. Peter stood, staring at where they had been, but then something caught his attention. Davy was coming out the downstairs bedroom, carrying a black bag. Micky was in the kitchen, on the phone.

"Hello? Is Mike Nesmith there?" Micky was asking into the phone.

How had they both gotten up so quickly? Why was Micky on the phone?

"What's going on?" Peter asked as Davy passed by.

"We're going to go to the hospital," Davy explained, "You have a fever. 105."

"When did we find this out?" Peter asked, a deep frown creasing his face.

"Just a few minutes ago," Davy's brows were knitting together.

"This is John Denver's house, right?" Micky was saying, "Oh, okay. No, I'm not looking for John, I just know Mike's with him tonight. Uh-huh. No, um, our friend is sick and we have to go to the hospital. Can you let Mike know when you see him?"

Maybe it was time to go to bed.

"I want to go to bed," Peter stated, "I feel tired."

"I know, babe, come on and let's get in the car," Davy took a hold of Peter by his elbow.

"Okay, thanks, bye," Micky hung up the phone, before turning to face Davy and Peter, "We ready to go?"

"Go where?" Peter asked.

"The hospital," Davy told him, "Yeah, we're ready."

Peter felt tired and fuzzy, as if there were cotton in his ears making everything seem as if there were some sort of odd film covering everything. Not that he could see this film, he just felt as if it were there, in his head at any rate. Davy lead him to the car, where he buckled Peter into the back seat and clambered in next to him. Micky got into the driver's seat and started the car up. As they drove, Peter held tightly onto Davy's hand. When would they get to the hospital? It felt as if they had been driving for ages. Shouldn't they be at the hospital by now?

"Davy?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, Pete?" Davy answered him.

"I don't want to die in the hospital. Don't let me die there," Peter wasn't sure if he was pleading with Davy not to let him die in that antiseptic smelling place or if he was just stating it.

In fact, he wasn't entirely sure why he said any of that at all. It had just sort of slipped out. Davy rubbed Peter's arm.

"You're not going to die, mate," he reassured Peter, "We're just going to go see Dr. Cole and see what's up. That's all."

"I had a fever when I had thrush," Peter felt the cold hand of fear grip him, "Do you think I have thrush again?"

"I don't know, babe, but it's going to be okay," Davy ran his hand through Peter's hair, "Trust me, alright. It'll be okay."

Peter thought he heard Micky say something but he wasn't sure. Everything felt as if it were slipping away from him. How had everything gone downhill so quickly? He had felt fine this morning. Perfectly normal. Not sick at all. All Peter wanted to do in that moment was to disappear. He gripped Davy's hand in his, trying to stay with him.

Davy and Micky were sat in the waiting area again. Dr. Cole had greeted them with a cool, reassuring smile when the trio had entered the AIDS ward. Davy and Micky had kept interrupting each other when they tried to explain what was wrong with Peter, but in the end Dr. Cole understood. He had told Davy and Micky to try and relax, telling the two of them that they'd figure out what was wrong. Then he had whisked Peter away to run tests.

"Do you think it could be thrush again?" Micky asked.

"I dunno," Davy admitted, "I don't think so. His fever wasn't as bad as last time. And he didn't have any trouble with his throat."

A lull of silence enveloped the two men after that. Davy felt fidgety. When would Dr. Cole come and see them? Were they going to give Peter a room or were Micky and Davy supposed to just sit in the waiting room forever? Had Mike gotten Micky's message? Where was Mike right now? Would Peter be could? Why hadn't they noticed anything wrong with him? He'd been coughing so often. Why hadn't they seen this coming? What was wrong with him?

"Micky, Davy," Dr. Cole's voice cut through Davy's thoughts.

The doctor was standing a foot away from them.

"Is Peter alright?" Micky instantly asked as he stood up.

"Well, I sent some blood samples to be examined, but the results won't be back for a while. I also took an x-ray of his chest, but the results of that were inconclusive," Dr. Cole replied and Davy noted that Dr. Cole seemed to be nervous, "I ran a few other tests that I'm waiting for results on, but I'll have them soon enough. His fever has gone down a little, and he's sleeping right now. I thought I'd let you guys sit with him, rather than out here."

What could Dr. Cole be nervous about? It made Davy shiver a little. Did he know something that he didn't want to disclose to Micky and Davy? Maybe Peter was dying. Maybe that was why Dr. cole was nervous. As soon as the thought came into Davy's head, he immediately dispelled it. If Peter was dying, Dr. Cole would tell them right away.

"Thanks, doc," Micky said, instinctively clinging to Davy's hand.

"Alright, then, come on," Dr. Cole lead them to Peter's room.

There wasn't anyone else in the room, the other bed was just empty, and there were three fold-up chairs pushed against the wall, underneath the window. Micky began to bring two of the three chairs over nearer to Peter's bed.

"I'll be back soon to let you guys know what the tests results bring up," Dr. Cole informed the two of them.

"Thank you," Davy said, feeling a numb sensation spreading throughout his body.

And with that, Dr. Cole disappeared. Micky sat down in one of the chairs and, after a moment, Davy followed suit.

"I think he knows something he doesn't want us to," Davy commented, looking at Peter's sleeping face.

"What do you mean?" Micky frowned.

"Didn't you see how nervous he looked?" Davy pointed out, "He knows, or maybe suspects, what might be wrong with Peter, and he doesn't want us to know until he's sure."

"Good," Micky commented, "I don't want to know anything bad until it's for sure."

The tone in Micky's voice made Davy bite back any sort of retort he could think of just then, so the two lapsed into silence.

"Do you think that maybe the AZT stopped working?" Davy asked after a solid four minutes of silence.

"No," Micky shook his head, "That wouldn't have caused a fever, this has to be some sort of opportunistic infection."

Davy didn't have a response for that. He couldn't think of anything else to say. He wasn't even sure if Micky had answered his question. So once more, silence engulfed the room. There wasn't a clock in the room that Davy could see, so he wasn't sure how long he and Micky just sat with Peter, but eventually, Dr. Cole came back into the room.

"Alright, the tests results are back and they indicate that there's something wrong with Peter's lungs," Dr. Cole informed the two men, "But the tests aren't conclusive enough to tell me what exactly is wrong. So I'm going to prep Peter for a bronchoscopy, to find out just what's going on."

"What's a bronchoscopy?" Davy asked.

"A bronchoscopy is a procedure that will allow me to look at Peter's airways using a thin viewing instrument called a bronchoscope, hence the procedure's name being bronchoscopy," Dr. Cole explained.

"Will it hurt him?" Micky sounded scared.

"No, not at all. His throat will be sore afterwards, but he won't feel anything while the procedure is happening," Dr. Cole assured Micky.

"What do you think is wrong?" Davy wanted to to know.

"I'm not sure yet," Dr. Cole admitted, although Davy got the feeling that he was still trying to hide something from them, "Peter's CD4 count is low, his viral load is up, despite the fact that last week when he came in to be checked out, the AZT had been working fine and his count was higher and load lower."

"Did it stop working?" Micky questioned.

"I don't think so," Dr. Cole answered, "But I don't want either of you worrying. We'll find out what's wrong and we're going to fix it."

Davy threw a glance at Peter, who was still sleeping. He must have been exhausted to be able to sleep through all of this conversation. Dr. Cole then suggested that they go down to the cafeteria to get some coffee, as it would probably be a very long night for the two of them, but Davy knew he was only suggesting this to get the two of them out of his way. But Davy understood. It would be better for Micky to get his mind off of the bronchoscopy anyways. So Davy nodded his agreement and nearly dragged Micky down to the cafeteria. Once there, Davy sat Micky down in a chair and went over to the counter. A man behind the counter gave Davy the two coffees he had ordered, along with two cups of jello. Davy handed over the money he owed and then he took his purchased items back to the table that Micky was sat at, forgetting that the man behind the counter owed him change.

"Thanks," Micky mumbled, taking the cup of coffee and the jello that Davy offered him.

"Peter'll be fine, Micky, you'll see," Davy reassured his friend as he sipped at his own coffee.

Micky took a large gulp of coffee, staring down at the jello in front of him.

"I hate jello," Micky grumbled, poking at the red gelatin in the cup.

"No, you don't," Davy said, continuing to drink his coffee.

Micky sighed and took a bite of his jello. Davy watched him as he swallowed. He wasn't entirely sure how he was feeling but Micky looked miserable. Davy suspected that he looked similar. Two miserable people, drinking rather disgusting coffee and pitifully eating jello.

"Do you think Mike will show up?" Micky asked.

"I don't know," Davy admitted to him.

Had Mike gotten Micky's message? They wouldn't know until he showed up and god only knew when he'd show up.

"I wish he were here with us," Micky absently commented, jiggling the jello that was on his spoon.

"Me too, but he'll be here. If not tonight, then by the morning," Davy assured Micky.

"I should call Coco," Micky said to no one in particular.

"You can if you want to," Davy nodded his head.

Maybe they both weren't miserable. They probably both looked miserable but Davy wondered if maybe Micky was feeling numb just like he was. It would make sense.

"I don't know. I think I'll wait until we know what's wrong," Micky shrugged.

Yes, Davy thought to himself, Micky was feeling just like he was right now. What more could be expected with such a dreadful unknown hanging over their heads.

"Okay," Davy finished his coffee and finally ate some of his own jello.

"She and Beth have been thinking about getting a cat, you know," Micky commented.

"Yeah?" Davy took another bite of his jello.

It was surprisingly good. Or maybe Davy was just very hungry. Or maybe… maybe… it didn't matter.

"Yeah," Micky nodded, "She told dad, too, who then said that instead of a cat, she and Beth should get a kid. Coco just laughed dad off but do you want to know what she told me?"

"Of course," Davy said.

"Well, when we were talking, just the two of us, she told me that she wants to have a kid of her own. She and Beth. They both want to have a baby. Each. I joked that they should give us a kid, but, even though we both laughed about it, I think if I really asked, she and Beth would give us a kid. Maybe not for a while, and I'd wait for Coco and Beth to have as many kids as they want before I even thought about asking them. Plus, it'd all depend on if you guys want kids," Micky was rambling, "I mean, do you ever think about having kids, Davy?"

Davy watched as Micky continued to pick at his jello. The question made Davy want to squirm. He didn't really want to think about something that probably none of them would ever have.

"Uh, no, not really," Davy answered.

"I've always wanted kids," Micky went on, almost as if he hadn't heard Davy's response, "When I found out that I liked boys, I was real disappointed. No one's gonna let a pervert and his lover adopt a kid."

"Well you don't know that. You never know what the future might have in store for us," Davy pointed out, not wanting Micky to feel bad.

Micky took a long gulp of his coffee and then smiled bitterly.

"I guess that's true," he said, "I'm sorry, I just… talk when I'm nervous or scared."

"I know, Mick," Davy nodded his head.

They sat in the cafeteria for a whole hour. Micky talked and Davy listened, that was how it went. The words and stories that came out of Micky's mouth had no real substance to them and both men knew this. It was an unspoken understanding that Davy respected. Micky needed to talk. And he had to talk about nothing at all. So Davy nodded his head here and there, listening the whole time. After an hour, they found a bathroom. They both relieved their bladders and decided to walk around the hospital a little. A nurse noticed their little never ending adventure a half hour into it and kindly directed them to a courtyard where they could get some fresh air.

Outside, Micky pointed out all the star constellations that he could and then launched into a lengthy rant about light pollution. Davy at this point decided to kill some time and so he played Devil's Advocate. He argued that light pollution wasn't even real and Micky utterly destroyed that line of argument. In the courtyard they found a bench to sit on, and the talk turned to music.

"I wonder if we'll ever have another gig together as the Monkees," Davy commented.

"Of course we will," Micky immediately answered.

The way he said it made it sound as if Micky had been repeating that to himself for some time now. A mantra of sorts.

"Peter hasn't touched any of his instruments for a good while now, especially his guitar," Davy pointed out, "Neither have the rest of us."

"We've just been busy," Micky rested his chin in his hands, "With everything going on, how could we find time to practice."

"Maybe it's time we hang up the idea of being a band," Davy tentatively suggested.

It would make sense, of course. When Peter passed away, the band would be finished. It wouldn't feel right to continue being the Monkees without Peter. And since they didn't have time to practice, didn't have time to find gigs, could they still call themselves a band? Certainly their dream of being rockstars was a pipe dream to begin with but now with Peter's illness throwing a wrench into the equation, maybe it was time to give up the dream completely. Of course it broke Davy's heart to even think of such a thing. He loved being the Monkees with his bandmates. But even if Peter got well enough to play his guitar, who'd hire them if they found out Peter had AIDS? Who'd hire them when Mike or Micky or Davy got AIDS? The answer, of f course, was no one. No one was going to hire a band like that.

"Don't say that sort of shit," Micky snapped.

He sounded angry and Davy regretted having said anything. They sat on the bench in the courtyard, surrounded by nothing but silence, for a few minutes.

"Do you think Dr. Cole will have bad news for us?" Davy questioned after a while, deciding to test the waters and see if Micky was still mad at him.

"Probably," Micky shrugged, "But I don't know. We'll just… have to take it one moment at a time."

He didn't seem to be angry with Davy anymore. But he didn't exactly sound thrilled either. The air was a bit too stagnant in the hospital courtyard for Davy's liking. He wished there was some sort of breeze to break up the air a little. Break up the tension.

"Do you ever wish you'd gotten it to?" Davy asked.

The question came out of nowhere. Davy wasn't entirely sure why he thought to ask that. He felt Micky glance at him.

"What? AIDS?" he could hear the frown in Micky's voice.

"It's statistically impossible that you and me don't have anything," Davy explained, "I mean, Mike's probably clean as fuck. Or… was. I don't know."

Davy sighed, unsure of where he was even taking this conversation.

"I don't hope I get it, and I don't wish I had gotten it," Micky replied after a stretch of silence, "But we should get retested after six months. And continue to do so. Or at least, that's my plan. We could at any point become HIV positive and develop AIDS."

"Wow," Davy almost laughed, "You really sound like you know your stuff."

"I do," Micky nodded, "I asked Dr. Cole all about it. Said that it was uncommon for partners of AIDS patients to not become HIV positive and that all three of us should monitor ourselves closely, get tested every six months, be safe."

"Be safe," Davy repeated, a hollow feeling spreading throughout his chest.

The two men sat on the bench for a while. Davy felt a heavy stone begin to form in his insides and he felt a horrible guilt begin to wash over him.

"Micky, I have to tell you something," he mumbled after a while, eyes glued to the large slabs of stone that made up the ground of the courtyard.

"What is it?" Micky prompted.

Davy could feel his eyes on him. It was an unbearable sort of feeling but Davy was committed now. He couldn't exactly back out of it now, could he.

"I almost got it first," Davy finally admitted.

He braced himself for whatever came next. There was no telling what was going to happen. Or maybe nothing would happen. After all, so much had already happened that day. Maybe they were both too numb to react to anything.

"What'd ya mean?" Micky asked.

"I… a year or so before Peter got his diagnosis, I was at the baths," Davy began, his ears feeling extremely hot, "I… well I - there was this guy. He told me he had it and didn't stop to let me say no. I had to push him off me."

Silence. Why was it so quiet outside, in this damn little courtyard? Why weren't there even crickets? Then.

"Did he…?" Micky didn't finish the question. Davy understood what he was asking.

"I don't know, no I guess, no," Davy shrugged, "Nothing happened, I made sure of that."

"Did you get tested?" Micky asked.

"I… I had planned to. A flyer I saw ages ago said you had to wait, like, three months but I had… when three months rolled around I figured I hadn't actually been exposed to anything," Davy replied.

Davy felt utterly horrid. How had things devolved to this?

"I love you, Davy," Micky whispered, his hand suddenly grabbing Davy's.

The gesture made Davy feel a little better but only marginally. The worry he felt for Peter and the feelings he still harbored for himself were still mixing up inside of him.

"I love you, too, Micky," Davy said, squeezing Micky's hand gently.

They sat like that for a few minutes, heads tilted upwards towards the stars until they let go of each other's hands. Then Micky stood up.

"Let's go back to the room. See if that broncho-scopy thing's finished," Micky suggested as he offered Davy his hand.

Davy grabbed Micky's hand and stood up as well.

"Alright, that sounds good," he agreed.

The two made their way back to Peter's room, their hands clasped together as they both braced themselves to face whatever would come next. When they went into Peter's room, they found the blonde bassist sleeping in his bed as if nothing had happened. Davy almost wondered if anything had actually happened. But Dr. Cole was there, marking something on a clipboard. Upon Davy and Micky's entrance, he placed the clipboard back onto the end of Peter's bed and turned to face them.

"Is it over?" Micky wondered.

"Yeah, he'll just need his rest tonight," Dr. Cole answered.

"What did you find out?" Davy asked, ready to know whatever news Dr. Cole had for them.

He couldn't tell if his palms were sweaty because he himself was sweating or if it was because he was still clinging to Micky's hand. Was it nerves or heat? Nonetheless, Davy was highly aware of his sweaty palms. Were both palms sweaty or was just one palm sweaty?

"It isn't good," Davy watched as Dr. Cole grabbed onto the end of Peter's bed, as if he needed the physical support.

Or maybe it was Davy who needed Dr. Cole to need some sort of physical support as he informed Davy and Micky of the news. Just to humanize him a little. But wasn't Dr. Cole already humanized in Davy's eyes? Davy wasn't even sure if any of that made any sense in the least.

"Peter has _Pneumocystis_ pneumonia, also shortened to three letters as PCP," Dr. Cole continued, "It's in its earlier stages though, so we'll start him on pentamidine as soon as possible, take him off AZT, all that. We'll get ahead of this the best we can."

Davy felt Micky pull him closer and Davy was grateful for the human contact. It felt sturdier to be so close to Micky. It gave him something to focus on while the rest of the world seemed to falter. Seemed to trip, stumble, and fall away. If AIDS was the death sentence, PCP was the confirmation of the date. In most cases. Not all cases. Maybe this wouldn't be all cases. Davy kept reminding himself that not everyone had the same experience with ADIS. It was always different. Similar, but there was always the hope that… maybe it wouldn't happen this time. Maybe this time would be different. Or a cure would be found. Or maybe this was all some sort of bad dream.

"Alright," Davy heard Micky say, the rumble of his words making Micky's chest vibrate, "Thanks, doc."

"One of the nurses will bring in a cot. And some blankets," Dr. Cole informed the two of them, "Since I'm assuming you two want to spend what's left of the night here."

Davy felt Micky nod his head in confirmation. Dr. Cole offered both of them a small smile, one that Davy reflected back in a hollow manner. Why was any of this happening to them? It just wasn't fair. Not fair at all. But what could be done? The answer was simple, of course. Nothing could be done, absolutely nothing. All that could be done was hope, such a fragile construct at this point. Hope and wait with fingers crossed.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you to everyone who reads this latest chapter! Again, this fic is fictional and it is not meant to make light of AIDS/HIV and it should be remembered that, although I did try to be as accurate as I could, I am only a high school, not a doctor or a historian. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, editing it was a lot of fun. I am nearing the end of the writing process (so far I have about 8 chapters unpublished, waiting to be edited & I have maybe 2-4 chapters left to actually write). My goal is to have this finished by the new year, January 1st, but no promises because school will probably be getting even more hectic from here on out. BUT I will try to keep publishing regularly and I really hope you all enjoyed this latest update. Feel free to leave a review and a comment, both are really appreciated! Your feedback is welcomed! Have a wonderful day & stay tuned for more.


	10. Chapter 10

It had been four days, only four measly days, but Peter was already feeling horrible. He felt tired and antsy and he didn't feel all that great. Being on pentamidine was worse than being on AZT, in his opinion, a realization that surprised Peter very much. But he had also noticed that he wasn't the only one who was being affected by this whole experience. Ever since Mike found out, he was irritable and snappy, as if he hadn't slept in a few days and just needed a good nap. Davy was more solemn but kept a level head and arranged everything the other two needed to do, such as trips to the pad for showers and to the cafeteria if food was not acquired another way. Micky kept joking and he had already found some comfort in reading to Peter. He read newspapers, books, science articles, the back of a little carton of milk, anything really. And Peter let him because he didn't mind. This had also been the first time he had called his sister Alison about an AIDS update and it had felt weird. More than weird, actually. It had felt alien, a foreign experience that Peter never had the pleasure to indulge in before. His sister hadn't cried, like Peter had assumed she would have, but he knew that she had been shaken. It was all in how she sounded saying goodbye. That had been about a day ago, though, and it was very distant from Peter's mind. Today, Micky was at home, taking a shower or something, and Davy was home too, although Peter couldn't remember why he had went home. Maybe to keep Micky company. That was a clear possibility. Mike had just left to go get some coffee from the cafeteria when the phone in Peter's room began to ring. With a sigh, Peter answered. It was lucky that the phone was kept so close to Peter's bedside.

"Hello?"

"Uh, hi, Peter, I… are mom and dad there yet?" Alison asked.

Peter frowned.

"Why… why would mom and dad be here?" he asked.

"Oh… oh, man," Alison groaned, "I'm so sorry, Peter, I brought up your pnemonia to one of my special friends and he freaked out. I got scared you were going to die, so I told Jack, because I couldn't tell mom and dad, but Jack freaked out. He didn't react at all the way I thought he would. And so then a little while later, I got a call from mom, who was screaming at me. She was angry I had kept a secret like that. And so she and dad decided to fly up to L.A. so that they can take you home."

As Peter sat in his hospital bed, listening to his sister explain, he felt an immense sense of dread creep over him. His parents were coming here. They knew about him being gay. His brother knew about him being gay. They knew he had AIDS, that he was dying of AIDS. They all knew. They knew all of it, every little bit of it. He felt naked and scared and so extremely vulnerable. His parents were coming here, to this hospital, to take him back to Connecticut.

"Fuck," Peter swore under his breath, screwing his eyes shut, "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"I'm so sorry, Peter," he heard Alison say.

He forgot that she was still on the phone. A part of him wanted to yell at her, demand to know why on earth she had been so stupid. Didn't she have any respect for him? But deep down, he knew he couldn't blame her. Peter understood that Alison had been scared and she had never had to deal with something this immense on her own. She had the luxury of feeling comfortable with their parents, with Jack, about anything and everything. It hadn't been her fault, not really.

"I… it's okay, Alison," Peter informed her, "You were just doing your best. I… should go. I'll talk to you later."

"Okay," Alison sounded almost as if she were on the edge of tears.

He could only imagine the guilt she was putting herself through right now.

"Love you, Ali," Peter said, hoping she knew that he wasn't all that upset with her.

What was done was done and the only way to fix it now was to focus on the real problem. His parents. There wasn't much of a point in being angry with Alison, not at this stage in the game.

"I love you, too, Peter," Alison responded.

Peter hung up, sinking back down into his bed. Maybe his parents wouldn't show up. Maybe none of it would happen. It was possible. Their plane could have been delayed or they might just disown him without even showing up. But then a nurse named Judy entered the room. Although Peter had only been here for four days, Judy had already become a pillar to Peter's strength.

"Hey, Peter, there's a man and a woman who say they're your parents out in the waiting room," Judy explained, "Do you want me to turn them away or…?"

Peter's stomach fell as all of his hopes came crashing down in a fiery pit of personal hell. For a moment, he considered telling Judy to tell his parents to go away. Maybe he'd use more colorful language. He didn't want to see his parents. Go away, go away, that's all he wanted to say to them. But deep down, he knew he couldn't say no. He couldn't tell them to go away, or even tell someone else to tell them to go away. There was no ounce of strength left inside of him that would allow him to turn his parents away. Plus, knowing them, they'd just waltz right in regardless of what Peter said, did, or wanted. They'd get their own way, just like the always had.

"I want to get it over with," Peter sighed, wishing for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow him whole.

"Not good news, them showing up?" Judy asked, an eyebrow arched.

Peter just nodded. Judy could just infer whatever she liked. Peter didn't particularly care. He was bracing himself for the worst.

"Well, I'll send them down, but if you need them out, just call me in here and we'll get them out," Judy informed Peter.

Again, Peter nodded, and then Judy disappeared. Where was Mike? When would Mike come back from getting coffee? Why was he getting coffee right now, of all the times he could go and get coffee? It was very inconvenient, to say the least.

"He's just in here," he heard Judy say and Peter saw his parents enter the room.

Immediately, Peter felt a pang in his chest. Regret and guilt washed over him, embracing his mind with open arms. Seeing his parents here, of all places, made Peter hate himself. For getting AIDS. For being gay. Didn't his parents deserve better? But the thoughts were quickly replaced by a slow burning realization that his parents could fuck off if they didn't approve of Peter. He was an adult, after all. For a moment, Peter wondered if maybe this was a some sort of nightmare, because for what seemed like ages, his parents simply stood near Peter's bed, looking at him. They didn't say a word. Then, they did.

"Oh, Peter, you look so skinny," his mother said.

Peter wanted to laugh at that. It was very much his mother. She'd ignore everything and just focus on how skinny Peter was. He could see the mist in her eyes. She was probably on the verge of sobbing. The look in her eyes made Peter feel just absolutely awful. How could he have done this to her?

"You don't look half bad yourself, mom," Peter replied, with a forced half-smile.

Peter's mom returned the smile, although hers seemed more natural. Less forced. Part of Peter was still on edge about them knowing he was gay now. Neither his mother, nor his father, had said a word about it, and Peter had assumed they would've come in here screaming about it. Yet they hadn't. His father turned to his mother, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Halley, dear, would you go get us some coffee?" he asked.

Peter's mother looked at her father with wide, almost unseeing eyes, and nodded.

"Of course, sweetie," she said, glancing over towards Peter, "I'll get you something to eat, Peter. What do you want?"

"I'm not that hungry, thanks mom," Peter declined the offer.

If he ate anything right now, Peter imagined he'd throw up. But by the way his mother was looking at him, she wasn't going to take no for answer. She never did.

"I'll ask that lovely nurse who showed us in here what you can eat, and I'll bring it back with the coffees," she asserted and then exited the room.

That left Peter and his father. The temperature seemed to drop and increase all at the same time. Peter had a gut feeling that now was when his sexuality was going to be brought up. Now was the moment that Peter was fearing and had feared for most of his life. Peter quietly watched as his father pulled the chair in the room over beside Peter's bed. Once he was sitting down, he rubbed a hand over his entire face. Peter didn't say anything. Tense, he waited for his father to initiate the conversation.

"How'd it get to be like this, son?" his father sighed, looking as if he himself might cry, which frightened Peter.

His father never cried, especially not in front of his children. Peter waited for his father to continue, the tension growing inside of him.

"I mean… I should have seen this coming. All my bowling buddies said, Jim if you don't get that Peter of yours straightened out, he's gonna end up a nancy boy. I laughed it off. No son of mine would turn out to be a nancy boy. Jack didn't. But then you got old enough for sports, you didn't have any interest, so you chose music instead. They all said he's turning funny, Jim, better straighten him out, before it's too late. Straighten him out, Jim. But I just…," his father's voice almost cracked then, "I knew they meant beating you. That's what discipline is for kids. Spankings and hits. But my old man hit me. And I never forgave him. So when your mother told me she was pregnant, I swore to God I wouldn't hit any child of mine. I figured you were just quiet. Shy. You'd meet a nice girl, settle down, once you had that silly music nonsense out of your system. But then your brother calls your mother and I up, saying you're…."

His father completely broke off, a half-hearted gesture completing his sentence, as if that was all it took to say that Peter was gay. Peter saw the tears threatening to spill over, the slight tremble of his bottom lip.

"That I'm a homosexual," Peter finished for him.

Peter watched as his father visibly flinched at the word 'homosexual'. He couldn't bring himself to look directly as his father anymore. The way he sounded, it seemed as if his father truly cared. It made it seem that, just like his mother, Peter's father would break down crying at any moment. But unlike his mother, Peter sensed an underlying anger inside of his father. Maybe not an anger at Peter but rather himself, yet it was still anger.

"Yes, that," his father slowly said after a moment.

He didn't say anything after that. Peter waited for his father to say something else, but two minutes passed and nothing happened.

"So why are you here? To yell at me or something?" Peter's voice had an edge to it.

Peter honestly couldn't take the silence anymore. This needed to be over. His father picked up on it, his muscles unconsciously tensing as a response, as if he were preparing himself to hit Peter.

"Your brother told us that you're dying of this whole faggot disease-," Peter's father trailed off slightly, as if he didn't know how to say what he wanted to say.

"I have AIDS, dad. It's called AIDS," Peter corrected him.

His father flicked his eyes towards the window. Peter wondered what he was thinking. He realized he kept holding his breath, so Peter forced himself to breath regularly. If he held his breath the whole conversation, he'd probably pass out.

"When your mother and I found out... ," again, Peter's father trailed off, his foot beginning to tap absently against the floor, "Why did you change your will?"

The question, at first, didn't make any sense to Peter. What did his will have anything to do with this? How did his father find out about this? For a moment, once more, Peter almost felt that, yes, he was in fact in a dream. How could he not be? Why else would his father bring up such a trivial thing like his will?

"Um… yeah, I, uh, did change it. What's that got to do with anything?" Peter replied, brows knitted together into a frown.

"You stated that you didn't want to be buried in the family plot," his father answered in a steady tone, one that made Peter almost shiver, "And you also stipulated that only 5% of your belongings will go to us. Your family."

Although Peter didn't exactly have to think hard to remember these changes to his will, he did find himself desperately trying to understand why his father would be upset by any of this. Why did he suddenly care where he was buried? Or how much of his junk would somehow make it's way back to his family?

"What's this got to do with anything, dad?" Peter questioned.

He watched as his father stilled his foot, rubbing a hand up and down his thigh.

"Everyone in our family has been buried in that plot. We have to be buried as a family. It's tradition," his father sounded restrained.

"When I die," the words nearly stuck in Peter's throat, "When I die, I want to be buried where I consider home. Which is here. In L.A."

"You'll upset your mother if you don't change that," his father snapped.

Peter had never seen his father act so weird. He realized, just then, that it was probably because his father was doing his best to ignore and avoid the knowledge that Peter was gay. That he was dying of a gay disease. He'd rather focus on these trivial things, harass Peter about them, and just let that little piece of knowledge slip underneath the rug. None of this mattered. Not really. Peter wondered where Mike was for the second time. He could very well use Mike's supporting presence in the room right now. How long did it get to take coffee?

"Dad, look, I want to be buried here. My…," Peter paused for a moment, trying to think of exactly what he wanted to call his friends, "My partners are here. I want them to be able to bury me. I want them to get most of my stuff when I'm gone."

Tears stung Peter's eyes, but he refused to let his father see him cry. He didn't deserve that sort of satisfaction.

"Your bandmates are not your family," his father pointed out.

A flash of anger. A stab of regret, disgust. It all happened in one short burst inside of Peter. The ignorance of his father caused Peter to bawl his hands into fists.

"They aren't just my bandmates," Peter snapped, "They're my life-partners. The people I want to spend the rest of my life with. The ones who I love."

Peter's father tensed, becoming a rigid pole in the hospital chair, at Peter's words. His eyes wouldn't look anywhere near Peter's direction. It nearly broke Peter's heart, even though Peter knew he shouldn't be bothered.

"It doesn't matter what they are," his father's tone continued to hold a restrained tinge.

For a brief moment, Peter wondered if his father was about to get up and leave the room. It looked as if he might. But as Peter waited, nothing happened. His father continued to sit in the chair.

"I'm going to make you a deal. A choice. Because I want to make your mother happy," his father said, his voice quieter now.

It made Peter shiver.

"You can be buried here, and give 64% of all your belongings to your real family," Peter's father emphasised the word real, as if it had some major significance, "Or you can be buried in Connecticut, where you belong, and give 25% of your belongings to your real family."

Again, Peter's father stressed the word real. As if the family he had with Micky, Mike, and Davy wasn't real at all. Both options were horrible. Neither one was what Peter wanted. With the way things were, when Peter died, Micky and Mike and Davy would never see any compensation for their loss. His mother and father wouldn't be saddled with the medical debt that Peter was on the verge of costing his friends. His 'real' family had only just found out about the real him in the last few days. Alison was the only 'real' family he had, in his opinion, and even then she was as ignorant as most people were. But Peter knew, deep down, that he couldn't argue with his father. Not on something like this. Despite the fact that he really wanted to.

Peter was far too tired. Immensely tired. He was in no mood to fight, no mood to argue. He just wanted this to end.

"Fine," Peter sighed, fists unclenching, "I'll change it, okay. You can bury me whenever the fuck you want."

"Don't use that sort of language, Peter," his father said.

"Or you'll do what?" Peter challenged.

He stared right at his father, waiting for him to do something in response. His father was not looking at him. He was looking towards the window. Peter studied his father's face. Jaw clenched, both hands gripping the arms of the chair. He'd lost some more hair. It shocked Peter to realize how old his father looked. And, despite his anger, he equally felt like a failure. How could his father ever love him again? Why did Peter feel so bad at the loss of his father's love and approval? Before his father could do or say anything else, Peter's mother came into the room.

"Alright, here you go," she said to his father as she handed him a small cup of coffee, "And this is for you, Peter. You better eat it."

His mother placed a cup of pudding onto his bedside table, a spoon appearing next to it a moment later. Peter smiled at his mother, wondering what she thought about all of this. Did she disapprove of Peter? His mother mirrored his smile back to him.

"I think we should go, Halley," his father announced suddenly, standing up and moving towards the door.

His mother looked surprised, motionlessly watching him head towards the door. She then looked back towards Peter.

"I'll be right out, dear," his mother said.

Peter's father hardly acknowledged her. He simply walked out of the room. Peter felt a grip of fear now that he was alone with his mother. Was it her turn to demand something of him? Exhaustion was beginning to creep up on him and he knew that he didn't have much energy left. His mother came closer to his bed and took his hand into hers.

"Oh, my baby boy," she murmured, "I never wanted this for you."

There were tears in her eyes. Peter felt a pang of guilt. He was making his mother cry.

"It's okay, mom," he said, his voice cracking a little, "I'll be alright."

His mother bit down on her bottom lip.

"I love you, Peter," she said, her voice wavering, "You… you better make sure you're eating enough."

Then, she leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. It was a simple enough act, but it filled Peter with a mixture of warmth and guilt and melancholy. It had been so long since he had seen his mother. And he had expected her to hate him for being gay. But here she was, kissing him.

"I love you, too, mom," Peter could only muster a whisper.

His mother smiled at him, said goodbye, and then exited the room. Peter watched her leave. After a moment, Peter stared up at the ceiling and, with a relative calm surrounding him, began to cry.

"Peter? What's wrong?" Mike asked as he sat down in the chair near Peter's bed.

Peter blinked in surprise, having not heard Mike enter the room. He quickly stopped his sniveling and wiped the tears away from his cheeks. Mike's face was etched with worry.

"I, uh, my parents were here," Peter explained.

"What?" Mike frowned, throwing a glance over his shoulder as if Peter's parents would magically appear from thin air like some sort of goblin monster.

"They… my sister, Alison, I told her about me having AIDS because she figured out I was gay. So when I told her about this PCP thing, she got scared, called my brother Jack, and told him I was dying or something, I guess. Then Jack told my parents and my parents came here to see me," Peter's voice kept cracking and the tears dribbled down his chin.

Why couldn't he stop crying? He wasn't a baby, he should be able to get a hold of himself.

"Wait, your sister knew? For how long?" Mike asked.

Peter took a deep breath and then explained everything to Mike, starting from when Alison found out and ending with the agreement he made with his father regarding his will. Mike didn't interrupt Peter with any questions and, as he talked, Peter observed that Mike kept fiddling with the silver bracelet he had given Mike. His three friends all wore their bracelets and it always brought a small amount of comfort to Peter. So seeing Mike unconsciously toy with the bracelet while Peter talked made Peter feel better, somehow. It didn't really make much sense to him, honestly, but he'd take anything he could get at this point. After Peter finished, Mike expressed his sympathies and said some comforting words to Peter, although Peter wasn't entirely listening. The wave of exhaustion had finally snuck up on him and soon enough Peter was asleep.

At one point he found himself half awake and distantly heard Mike talking to someone. As Peter became more awake and aware, he realized that Mike was filling Davy and Micky in on what had happened. Peter wanted to talk to them himself but sleep pulled him back into darkness. The next time Peter awoke, he felt better and more rested, although he was still tired and acknowledged the fact that he wouldn't be up for very long. The room was dimmed and none of his friends were in the room. But Coco was. She was sat next to Peter's bed in the chair, reading a book.

"Where's everyone?" Peter asked.

Coco looked up, then marked her place in her book.

"I offered to stay with you tonight, so that the guys can get some sleep in a real bed," Coco explained, "So they're at home."

"Oh," Peter said, feeling a little disappointed, "Well… thank you."

"Don't mention it, Peter, you're family," Coco instantly replied.

Family. The fact that Coco considered Peter family felt like a welcome relief after the long day Peter had suffered through.

"What are you reading?" Peter asked, trying to drum up a casual conversation.

Coco glanced down at her book, almost as if she had forgotten she'd brought it with her.

"Oh, Beth bought this for me a few days ago. Up the Down Staircase by Bel Kaufman. It's pretty interesting so far, but I only just started," Coco answered, and then gently, yet awkwardly bit down on her upper lip, just like Micky did, "Do you want me to read it to you?"

Peter considered the offer and then nodded. It wouldn't hurt, he decided. Plus it would help him go back to sleep. Or, perhaps more accurately, give him a better excuse to go back to sleep.

"Alright," Coco beamed, opening up and the book.

She began to read aloud to Peter and Peter settled down in the hospital bed. Coco had such a wonderful voice, one that was very comforting. Her voice sounded nothing like Micky's yet it had the same sweet quality. Peter felt himself drifting off in a matter of minutes.

A week passed before Peter heard from any member of his family again. During that time, Peter slept and finally was able to get himself to start writing lyrics again. They weren't anything special, but it meant that he had taken back something that AIDS had taken from him. One day, his phone rang and he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Peter!" it was Alison.

"Hi, Ali, what's up?" Peter asked.

"Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to call you and say hello, is all," Alison replied.

But of course, since it was Alison after all, she did a lot more than just say hello. Peter did his best to keep up with her conversation, but it seemed as if she were talking a mile a minute.

"Harry and I were talking, too, and we want to come up there with the kids sometime soon. Maybe in two or three months, so he can get off work and give you some time to get better," Alison continued to talk, "But, look, Peter, you call me if you need us to come up at any point because both Harry and I want to be there for you. I know, I know you have your friends but I don't want you to feel like your real family has all abandoned you. Because I'm here for you. And so is Harry. And the kids are as well."

Peter wanted to argue with Alison. Micky, Mike, and Davy were his family. He'd marry either of them in a heartbeat if it were legal. But he understood what Alison was trying to say and so he left the comment unspoken.

"How are the kids?" Peter asked.

"They're alright. I had a long discussion with Harry and we decided that we were going to tell them about being a homosexual, since their aunt and uncle are both homosexuals, you know. So I sat Bobby and Cindy down and told them simply that sometimes boys can like boys and girls can like girls, and that it's alright if that happens. I don't think Cindy's old enough to understand any of that, but at least she'll know, and we'll keep reminding them that, but Bobby seemed to understand. He asked if you were going to marry a boy and I fibbed a little, saying yes, I just didn't want to get into the legality of it all. He is eight after all," Alison talked a mile a minute.

Peter remembered now why he didn't often call up his sister for a chat. It wasn't that she didn't try. It was more concerned with the fact that maybe she tried too much. Still, she was doing her best.

"Well, that's nice," was the only thing Peter could think to say.

Alison talked for a while longer and Peter just tuned her out at that point. Eventually, Alison said that she had to go, so Peter said goodbye and they exchanged I love you's, and then Peter was able to hang up. He sunk down into his bed, wondering how much longer he'd have to stay here in this horrible place. Yes, this was supposed to be a place of healing, but Peter knew that coming here only meant he was one step closer to his grave. He felt horrible, with or without medicine, sometimes he even felt better without medicine. And all the medicine did for him was maybe tack on a few months more to his life. How had he gotten here, of all places?

Peter screwed his eyes shut. All he wanted to do right now was sleep. So he slept.

Dr. Cole had told them that Peter would have to be in hospital for four weeks. It was only Peter's second week now and Mike already felt as if it had been a month. He didn't want to sleep at the hospital again and he didn't want to sleep at home tonight. The pad felt empty without Peter and Mike had also noticed that Davy had started to sleep with Micky in his bed upstairs rather than the bedroom that he and Peter typically shared. So Mike knew he wasn't the only one who felt as if the pad were empty in some way. Why he didn't want to sleep at home tonight was a mystery, even to Mike, who had been thinking it over in his head the whole day. He just needed a change. An escape. And so he called up John and asked if he could sleep at John's house tonight.

John said yes, of course he said yes, and so Mike found himself sitting in John's living room, listening to a new record that John had purchased earlier that day. Since the night Mike had hooked up with Micky, the night he had gotten drunk and told John how pretty he looked, Mike had slowly noticed a slight shift in his perception of John. It wasn't all that bad, it was just moving away from a sexual basis and more towards strict friendship. Or possibly a friendship laced with romantic tendencies, Mike still wasn't sure which one fit better. They still hung out but Mike no longer felt this underlying sadness, one born from knowing Mike could never have what he wanted, which was a relief for Mike. He and John had also discussed their relationship. Mike had expressed his desire to stay friends with John but only friends. Mike remembered that he had said, "You have Annie and I have the guys."

He was quite proud of that statement. John had been a little confused, if not reluctant, at first, but as they talked, John agreed and was very happy that Mike wanted to continue to be his friend. But the term 'friend' was still elusive to Mike, and Mike guessed that John found the term equally mystifying. Yes, he felt relieved that he could be happy with his bandmates

"So, how's Peter?" John asked after he turned the record over.

"He's doin' alright, far as I can tell," Mike answered, "His family found out about him. It wasn't real pretty."

"Shame," John said.

"Yeah, but he's writing songs again. So I'm takin' that sign as a good one," Mike shifted into a slightly more comfortable position on the couch.

John settled down on the floor, sitting between Mike's legs. He tilted his head back, his eyes closed.

"Glad to hear that. Always thought he was good at making up songs," John commented.

"I just hope to see him playin' again soon," Mike sighed, running a hand through John's hair.

"He'll get back to playing, you'll see. Once a musician, always a musician," John replied.

"You ain't seen him all the time, John. It takes so much of him, both it and the medicine. I wish I could shoulder all that pain for him, it just ain't fair."

Mike wasn't even paying any attention to the record that was playing. John reached a hand up to grab onto Mike's hand, the one that was resting atop John's head.

"He'll be alright, Michael. If he's writing again, he'll play again," John reassured him.

"I just… He tries… I know he will, I know he'll start playin' again," Mike wasn't sure what he was trying to say.

It felt nearly like a lost cause, trying to find the words to articulate what he wanted to say, if he wanted to say anything at all. His eyes wandered over the books on the book shelf across from the living room. There was nothing in particular that he was looking for, his eyes were just looking because they could.

"What's on your mind?" John asked after a moment, a hand briefly brushing against Mike's leg.

"I'm not sure," Mike sighed. "You know how Peter got Micky, Davy, and I the bracelets for Christmas?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I… I want to do something, maybe give Peter something, I don't know. I want to show him how much he's loved. So that he doesn't lose hope. Hope that he'll get better and that no matter what, he'll always have the three of us," Mike continued.

"Why don't you get rings?" John suggested.

The record player stopped and John got up to change out the record, not even asking Mike's opinion on the album. The music had now faded to the background in both of their minds at this point and there wasn't a need for any sort of discussion.

"Rings?" Mike didn't understand.

Rings were what straight couples exchanged in the eyes of God, during the ceremony of holy matrimony. And the church didn't condone men marrying men. So what was John going on about? John returned to his spot on the floor.

"Yeah, rings. Any sort you like. Four of them. And you can have a little commitment ceremony, or something, if you like," John explained.

"What? Like a fake marriage ceremony?" Mike asked.

It sounded blasphemous. Weird. They weren't heterosexual, so why try an emulate such a heterosexual ceremony?

"It doesn't have to be like that, if you don't want it to," John shrugged. "It can be just the four of you, maybe some friends if you want. Micky's family, maybe. And just… have the four of you commit, if you want to."

The thought of exchanging rings with his friends brought out two main emotions inside of Mike. One was a faint echo of disgust, although it was milder. A part of him knew that he should be disgusted or repulsed by the idea of committing himself to a man, let alone men. It wasn't right. But on the other hand, Mike also felt excitement. Bracelets were one thing, but rings meant something so much more than any bracelet could. Of course, the bracelets would not cease to be important and special, but the rings could really add something solid and tangible to their relationship with all four of them. As the bracelets stood now, it only twined three of them, since Peter did not have a bracelet of his own.

"It was just an idea, though," John said after Mike's lack of response.

"I like it," Mike responded quickly. "It's a good idea."

"Yeah?"

"Sure, I could even bring Micky and Davy in on it, and surprise Peter," Mike nodded.

They lapsed into silence then, the music becoming more of a focus suddenly. Mike felt better, content, as he sat on John's couch. Already he was thinking of ideas for rings and when they should surprise Peter. The night grew old and with the time passing, the conversation between Mike and John flowed. Around two in the morning, Mike couldn't keep his eyes open so he went up to bed and knew that John would be going to bed himself shortly.

In the morning, Mike woke up to scraps of memories from his dream. All he could really remember was the fact that a woman he had once dated long ago had married him and they had kissed, but the kiss itself had felt like nothing. Mike was aware that more had happened in the dream, but he could only remember those two key factors. He lay in the guest bed, staring up at the ceiling, and wanting to just stay in that bed forever. It was cozy, much like his own bed, and today was Saturday. Realistically, Mike knew he could sleep in. John wouldn't mind and the others would understand if Mike took the morning off. But Mike knew that being there for Peter and the other two wasn't a job. It was a necessity. A responsibility that he couldn't neglect. So Mike pulled himself out of bed and got dressed into the change of clothes he had brought with him before heading down into the kitchen.

John was already up and making breakfast as Mike padded in.

"Good morning," John smiled and gestured towards a cup of coffee on the counter, "How did you sleep?"

Mike picked it up and took a sip, sitting down at the oakwood table.

"I slept fine," Mike replied, watching John as he finished making scrambled eggs and checked on the bacon.

"Bet it beats sleeping at the hospital," John commented.

"Sleeping there isn't that bad," Mike admitted, but then quickly added, "But sleeping here was better."

Mike took a gulp of coffee, the liquid almost scalding his throat. John finished up breakfast, plating it out onto two plates. He handed one over to Mike, who eagerly began to scarf down the food. A small smile flashed across John's face as he sat down next to Mike at the table and began to eat his own breakfast.

"Michael, I want you to know that if you ever want to escape the city, you're welcome to come up with me to my cabin up in the Sierra Nevada mountains," John stated after a good long while, "You and the guys."

Mike scraped the last of his eggs onto his fork.

"I'll keep that in mind," Mike nodded his head, though it was just a slight tilt of his head in a forward motion.

He slowly chewed the last forkful of his eggs.

"Michael, you know that I love you, right?" John asked.

Mike swallowed his food.

"Yeah, I know," Mike answered. "I love you, too."

He was highly aware of the noise that John's fork made as it moved against John's plate. Why did Mike suddenly feel so tense? It was ridiculous, there was no need for it. He and John were friends, after all. Good friends.

"You know, had you ever asked to go steady, I would have said yes," John almost sighed.

Mike studied his face. His eyes were locked on his plate, yet he seemed relaxed. Wistful, even, as if he and Mike were just reminiscing about past times. Maybe they were. Mike wasn't entirely sure.

"Even if I had, I don't think it woulda worked," Mike admitted, "We're good friends, that fits us alright, but it ain't like anything else would… At least, I don't think it would've."

The coffee in Mike's cup was growing cold. It wasn't lukewarm quite yet, but it was getting there. Almost there.

"Yeah, I know," John agreed, a mixture of disappointment and acceptance on his face, "And I know we got this all behind us. But I just wanted you to know that I really do love you. And I want you to be able to find happiness, Michael."

"Do you really love Annie?" Mike asked.

"Yes," John nodded, "At least, I think so."

"Then stop screwin' around on her, alright," Mike said.

"I'm tryin'," John finished the last of his bacon.

For a moment, the two men just sat there at the kitchen table, finishing their coffee. Once they were both finished, Mike helped John clean up. Then Mike embraced John before pecking him on the cheek.

"Thank you for being my friend, John," Mike said to him.

"It ain't nothing. Thanks for being mine," John said in return.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Happy Holidays! I might try to publish another chapter before Christmas (or on Christmas) but no promises. But do look forward to more chapters up soon as I'll be on break for a week so school won't be around to keep me away from writing/editing. I apologize for not posting a chapter in a while, but school has kept me very busy. Hopefully you all enjoyed this chapter! Feel free to leave any reviews/concerns/comments and leave a like/kudo/fav. Any feedback is appreciated. Again, I'd like to mention that I am not a historian nor am I a medical doctor, so I do apologize for any inaccuracies one my find. It is also important to mention that I am no way trying to make light of HIV/AIDS and I urge anyone interested in knowing the real story about HIV/AIDS (or even the current HIV/AIDS situation in the world) please go out and do some personal research. This story is purely fictional despite it's basis in historical fact. I hope you all enjoyed! Have a happy winter season and hopefully you all can look forward to a new chapter up soon! :)


	11. Chapter 11

As Peter's health came back to him inch by inch and bit by bit, he found that Micky, Mike, and Davy were spending more and more time together. He could tell they were planning something, although what it was, Peter didn't know. Whatever they were doing, it meant they were visiting him less and less but frankly Peter enjoyed having them out and about instead of having them crowding the hospital room. He loved all three of them dearly but three was a crowd when it came to hospital rooms. With his partners off conspiring against him, most likely, Peter filled the time with lyric writing and chord composing. Davy had brought Peter's guitar to the hospital so he could play, with Dr. Cole giving Peter a special allowance. As long as he wasn't playing too loudly and not too frequently, Peter could play his instrument in his bed. For the past couple of days, Peter had had an audience. A new roommate.

His name was Sam Newly, a curly haired fellow with an assortment of freckles on his cheeks. Some of them looked like constellations if you looked at them the right way. Sam was dealing with a relapse of Kaposi's sarcoma, a rare sort of cancer that wasn't all too uncommon for AIDS patients. Before he had been diagnosed three years ago he had been a teacher in grade school. For a whole year, twelve months exactly, Sam had been able to hide his condition from his students and his colleagues, including his boss. He had been on AZT and his condition had been surprisingly manageable. But in his second year, the first bout of Kaposi's sarcoma hit him, causing lesions to appear on his skin and Sam was forced to quit his job when he had to be admitted to the hospital a couple months into the second year. It wasn't as if Sam had an amazing reputation as a teacher, but he decided to quietly slip away with his dignity still intact rather than risk some sort of big scandal or something. Since then he'd been living off his savings, with some help from a few select friends.

Peter liked Sam a lot. He was very nice man and, despite Sam being six years Peter's senior, very relatable. Every time after Peter stopped playing, Sam would start to talk. Sometimes it would be about how he missed teaching or how he missed his class or it would just be him complaining about hospital food. Once Sam had even confessed to Peter that, once upon a time, he'd had a partner, Henry, who had been the love of his life as far as he was concerned. But Peter was able to gather that Henry hadn't taken Sam's diagnosis very well. From what Sam said, Peter guessed that Henry had just up and left one night without a word or warning to Sam, leaving him to take on the scariest thing to have ever happened to him all by himself. Alone. It made Peter feel doubly grateful for his friends and how they all had stuck with him through this, so far. Yet it also stung with guilt, because Peter did have his friends and Sam didn't really have anyone. The friends that Sam did have didn't visit him in hospital very often and only stopped by at his house every now and then. There was no family for Sam, no close friends or lovers. He was taking on the same ordeal Peter was, with one marked difference. Sam was relying on himself and the kindness of different programs, such as some of the programs offered by the Shanti Project. It made Peter want to cry, or scream, or something. It wasn't fair, not at all. But there wasn't much Peter could do for Sam. And so they just talked, about nothing in particular.

Today was no different from any other day. Micky came by that morning to say hello, talked to Peter for an hour, and then left. Around noon, Peter decided to work on the chords for the newest song he'd written. Of course it wasn't explicitly about AIDS, but Peter found it hard to imagine that it was about anything else. Sam was up at that point and he listened quietly, eyes half shut. Peter worked for twenty minutes before he laid his guitar in his lap, taking a break.

"I'm gonna miss hearing you play," Sam commented absently, almost as if he were talking to himself.

"Are you being let out soon?" Peter frowned, glancing over at Sam.

There was no way Sam would be leaving the hospital soon. Peter would be leaving before Sam could even discuss such a possibility, or at least that's what Peter had gathered. Maybe he'd been wrong.

"Nah, but aren't you in a week or two?" Sam countered.

"Oh, yeah. I'll be out in a week and two days, unless god forbid anything else should happen," Peter nodded, having almost forgotten he'd be out so soon.

It felt as if Peter wouldn't be let out of the hospital for months to come. Despite the ache he felt in his bones and the fact that he slept most of his days away, Peter yearned to be back at the pad, to feel as if he had the illusion of freedom and good health.

"I'm sure nothing else will happen," Sam reassured Peter, his voice quivering slightly with laughter, "You worry too much sometimes, Peter."

Peter threw Sam a glance. Sometimes Peter thought that Sam didn't worry enough. How could someone like Sam still seem to be so happy, most of the time? Peter had seen him cry. He knew that Sam wasn't always jovial all the time, yet stretches of time elapsed in which Sam seemed as if he were the happiest man on earth. It baffled Peter and made him yearn to know how Sam did it.

"Maybe, but I'm just ready to get out of here," Peter sighed, leaning his head back against the fluff of pillow behind his head.

"It's all you've been able to talk about recently," Sam commented, stretching his arms slightly above his head for a moment. "Maybe when I get out of here too, I can come watch you play with your friends. You are in a band with them, aren't you?"

The question took Peter by surprise, although it wasn't entirely a surprising question. It was, in fact, a rather ordinary and boring question, yet Peter still found himself having to think about it. It brought to mind something he hadn't particularly thought about in some time and it wasn't necessarily something Peter really wanted to think about in the first place.

"Yeah, I guess," Peter shrugged, "But the Monkees haven't been a band since my diagnosis, really."

It felt odd to admit that to Sam, but it was the truth after all. Davy, Micky, and Mike had each picked up some odd jobs to supplement the loss of income. Although it wasn't as if they'd been making a lot of money as a band. Maybe this had all been for the best. There had also been the debate on whether or not Davy should dip into the money allotted to him from his grandfather and if Micky should accept any money from his parents. At first, it was a simple no to that debate, but as the medical bills began to roll in on top of the amped up grocery bills and other, ordinary payments such as rent, the gang found themselves giving in. Davy's grandfather hardly noticed and Micky's parents were more than happy to lend a hand. But the band wasn't about the money in the first place. They'd been just as happy broke and barely eating meals as a struggling band as they were now with nearly steady jobs and incomes. The band had been about the music, not the money. The music that the four of them made together. And Peter missed feeling the raw connection he felt to his friends whenever they had played together, even during practices. The connection Peter felt with his friends when they had played together was the same sort of intimate connection he felt with them when they had sex. Sure, the connection was different in a lot of ways but the feeling still seemed to be the same.

"The Monkees," Sam repeated, breaking Peter's train of thought. "I knew it was something jungly."

He shifted a little in his bed, moving his pillow into a different position, before he continued speaking.

"Just because you guys haven't played in a while, doesn't mean you're through. You can always do something together, when you feel better, musically speaking," he said.

Peter's hands ran along the fretboard of his guitar, feeling each of the strings with the tips of his fingers. Sam wasn't wrong. The Monkees didn't need to be put to rest. Maybe they'd get big before Peter died.

"I know," he admitted, "I just don't ever know if I'll ever feel better. I'm too tired."

The sudden rustling of Sam's bedsheets caused Peter to look up, startled. Sam had shifted himself into an upright, sitting position, and he was giving Peter a stern but kind look.

"When I was in here with my first round of Kaposi's sarcoma, I felt so awful all the time that I thought I'd never feel good again," Sam said in a level tone, "Henry had left me, I was getting hit with a variety of treatments that left me feeling horrible, and I didn't even have a job anymore. Things can always get worse Peter, but that doesn't mean you have to lose hope. I mean, I'm not going to let this second round beat me down. I'll recover, maybe write a children's book or something, move on with my life the best I can. And I know you'll be able to do the same."

Sam sounded confident and the smile on his face warmed Peter from the inside, out. How was he so confident? Had things been different, had Peter met Sam under different circumstances, Peter imagined that he and Sam would have been very good friends. Peter returned Sam's broad smile.

"I'll do my best," Peter felt as if he were making a promise to Sam. "You'll have to call me up to tell me when you get out, so I can get the guys ready with a brand new song or something."

Sam slid back down onto his bed, so that he was stretched out in a more comfortable position.

"I'll be sure to do that," Sam agreed, then motioned towards Peter's guitar, "Will you play something a little more mellow? I want to listen to something while I fall asleep."

Peter nodded and picked up his guitar. He got through a whole song and a half before he had to put his guitar completely away because his eyelids were becoming too heavy to keep open. He threw a quick glance at Sam's sleeping form. The older man seemed so peaceful. Peter wondered what his children's book would be about. Has Sam ever wanted kids in his lifetime? The question directed his thoughts to Micky. Micky had always struck Peter as a guy who'd be a good father. The sort of fun dad that children would love. Had Micky ever wanted kids? It had never really crossed Peter's mind before. Did he want kids? He'd never really thought about it before. And now it seemed a mute point. If Micky ever did have kids, it'd be with Davy and Mike somehow, when Peter was long dead.

For the first time in a while, Peter felt a surge of regret. If only he wasn't gay. Micky could have had children with a nice girl by now if he hadn't turned out to be homosexual. And Peter wouldn't be dying of AIDS. Would it have been simpler to be straight? To like women? The idea of it felt foreign to Peter, yet a part of him agreed that it would have been easier. Peter let out a heavy sigh and pulled the cover up to his chin. He missed his own blankets, on his own bed. He missed the pad. He missed taking early morning walks on the beach with Mike and then taking evening walks with Micky or Davy. He'd maybe get that all back soon, as soon as he left the hospital, so there was no point in thinking about all those what if's. Peter was gay. He had AIDS. There wasn't anything he could do to change the past. All he could do was try and make something out of the future, whatever he had left of one. With that thought lingering in his head, Peter's eyes closed shut and he drifted off to sleep.

When he opened his eyes, the room was darker. It must have been night. Peter immediately noticed Davy, asleep on a chair he'd pulled closer to Peter's bed. A warm feeling blossomed in Peter's chest as he looked at Davy's sleeping form. But as Peter quietly watched Davy sleep, he noticed something funny about the air. It smelled strongly of antiseptics. Peter turned his head just slightly, glancing over towards Sam's bed. It was empty. A sickening feeling overtook Peter and he felt the room spin a little. He sat up quickly.

"Davy! Davy, wake up," Peter said, trying to keep his voice calm but there was still a clearly panicked tone to his words.

The smaller man lifted his head, a hand coming up to rub at his left eye.

"Peter," Davy's voice sounded hoarse, as if he'd been yelling a lot recently, "What's wrong?"

Did Peter really want to ask about Sam? Would it be easier to just assume, not know? Peter felt as if he'd stepped up onto some sort of ledge and now had the choice of either keeping his eyes open or shut on his way down to the bottom. This feeling whirling inside of him, threatening to take him over, oddly enough caused Peter to feel a rush of calm. His initial panic dissipated.

"Did something happen to Sam?" Peter asked after a moment, after he'd composed himself.

He'd take the plunge with his eyes open. It was what Sam would have done, at any rate, or at least that's what Peter assumed. Maybe he was wrong, but it didn't matter. Peter had already asked, there was no going back now. Davy's jaw clenched and Peter saw him throw an almost secret glance towards the door to the room, but Peter had noticed it. There was something going on, something that Davy didn't want Peter to know. The chilled, icy feeling of his blood seemed to be trying to clamor into his ears, trying to roar like crashing waves.

"What happened?" Peter repeated.

Davy whipped his gaze back to Peter, an almost frantic look on his face, hiding behind a sheet of forced tranquility.

"No, nothing happened to Sam, Peter. He's okay. Dr. Cole moved him to a free room, that's all. One finally freed up," Davy quickly answered, "Sam didn't want to wake you up, so he didn't say goodbye or anything. Told me to tell you he said goodbye. Said to drop by his room before you leave."

There was the expected, obvious rush of relief that washed over Peter. Then came the unsettled feeling of leftover fear. Why had Davy looked at the door? Why hadn't he just told Peter right from the get go? What else was happening that Davy didn't want Peter to be informed about? What was going on?

"Oh," Peter said, eyes still trained on Davy, studying his face carefully, "That's a relief."

Davy seemed a little jittery, his fingers gently tapping against the armrests of the chair. An indication that Davy was angry. Or irritated.

"So are the others here?" Peter asked.

"Um," Davy seemed to be distracted, "Micky and Mike were, but I think Mike went to the canteen to get some coffee, and it's just my night tonight, so he'll go home to be with Micky… Who's obviously at home right now."

"So everything's okay then?" Peter asked.

"Everything's alright, Peter," Davy's fingers were still lightly tapping against the armrests.

"You're lying," Peter countered, eyes narrowing.

Davy gave him a doubtful look.

"No I'm not," he argued.

"You are," Peter insisted, then gestured towards Davy's hands. "You're tapping your fingers. You do that when you're mad. So something's making you angry, else you wouldn't be tapping them."

Davy's fingers stopped and the smaller man glanced down at them, looking at them for a moment, before looking back up at Peter. He heaved a sigh, slouching down into the chair and rubbing his hands over his face.

"When did you get so good at reading me?" he asked.

"The moment I fell in love with your ass," Peter quipped.

This got a small laugh out of Davy, who nodded his agreement.

"So, what's wrong?" Peter repeated again, feeling like a broken record.

But it couldn't be helped. Peter had to know what was going on. Davy's shoulders slumped, making the Englishman seem so very small in the chair. He looked twelve, like a child. It made Peter feel weird, a knotted gut twisting sort of weird that Peter couldn't quite put into words. Davy rubbed his cheek and sighed. His eyes were trained on the floor.

"My grandda's dead," Davy stated.

There was only a flicker of sadness in Davy's voice, the majority of his tone slathered in exhaustion. He sounded as if he hadn't had any sleep in two days straight. Maybe he hadn't had any sleep in two days. It was entirely possible, now that Peter really thought about it.

"Shit," Peter swore, quietly of course, "I'm… I'm sorry, Davy."

What could Peter say to him? What was the right thing to say? Davy looked up at him, a small but genuine smile lighting up his face.

"It's really okay," Davy admitted, "He was very old and my cousins have told me that he passed away peacefully at home, just like how he wanted to. It wasn't as if he suffered or anything."

Peter didn't know what to say. The thought of a discussion about death made his skin crawl, even if it was in regards to an old person. It was sad that Davy's grandfather had passed, that was true. They all had met him, William Jones, four years ago. He'd flown all the way from Manchester to L.A. in order to visit Davy. During his stay, Davy had asked everyone to be on their best behavior. This had really been directed towards Micky and Peter, as Davy hadn't wanted his grandfather to even suspect that Davy had even gay friends, let suspect that Davy himself was a gay. This plea hadn't worked as well as Davy had anticipated it to and Micky had outed himself within the first hour of William's arrival. William hadn't seemed to care or mind but Davy continued to insist he keep the truth from the old man. Davy's grandfather had never known about Davy's bisexuality and now, Peter reminded himself, he'd never be able to. But Peter held the belief that if Davy had told his grandpa about himself, William would have done his best to accept Davy.

"I'm flying out tomorrow, for the funeral," Davy's words brought Peter out of his thoughts, "I'll be home the day after Wednesday."

Peter counted the days between tomorrow and the day after Wednesday. It was about three days, if he was counting correctly, which he assumed that he was.

"You aren't staying longer?" Peter frowned.

Three days didn't seem long enough. Didn't Davy wand more time with his family?

"I…," Davy trailed off, fingers tapping again, "I feel like it'll be a bad omen or something, to stay away from you and the guys for too long. I don't want to fly across the world for a funeral only to come home to…"

The unfinished sentence hung in the air, stretching out as if into infinity.

"You don't want to come home to another," Peter finished for Davy.

Davy physically flinched, as if Peter had slapped him.

"I didn't mean it like that," Davy insisted.

"Then how did you mean it?" Peter challenged.

He was surprised by the edge to his voice, the harshness. Where was this anger coming from? It had not been there a moment ago, but suddenly all of Peter's muscles tensed, his body filled to the brim with frustration and anger. Davy looked hurt, his eyes round and his brows creased.

"I just meant… I want to be here for you," Davy explained, "I don't want to leave you."

A heavy hotness was settling itself in Peter's chest, making it hard for him to think straight or think rationally. Why did it matter to Davy what happened to Peter? His grandfather was dead. He needed to go grieve with his family, his real family, and not wait around for some disgusting faggot to waste away and die. Davy's grandfather had raised Davy, given Davy love and a home when his parents had passed away. What had Peter ever given to Davy? Nothing. And now, with one foot practically in the grave, Peter couldn't give Davy anything in the future. Even his will now restricted him in what he could give to his lovers after his death. Three days was too short. Davy needed more time with his real family. He shouldn't be worrying about leaving Peter.

"It doesn't matter whether you leave me or not because I'll be dead in six months anyways, and that's if I'm lucky," Peter spat, despite the fact that he knew this sudden emotional overflow should not be taken out on Davy. "What are you even doing here, Davy? Your grandfather's dead. What are any of you guys doing, wasting your time on me?"

There was no sadness to Peter's voice. It was all just bitterness and anger, a broiling fiery mix of emotion. He hated himself in that moment. Loathed his very existence. Cursed his fate, his future. How could he be doing this to Davy right now? But it was almost as if Peter had let open the floodgates and was powerless to stop himself.

"Peter, we aren't… we aren't wasting our time on you," Davy replied, although he was slow to do so.

By the frown that creased his brows, Peter knew that he was confused and taken aback by Peter's sudden change in mood. But it was all here now, all of this anger. Anger at not being able to have a life with Micky that would amount to anything. A life with Mike and Davy too, that was dashed right along a life with Micky. Anger at his family. At the world. Anger at himself. A deep rooted anger that had taken a hold of him in that moment and possessed him as if he were some sort of puppet.

"But you are!" Peter insisted, "All three of you are giving up your lives for me, and it's pointless. We can't have a life together. All you're doing is watching me die. You should all move on already! Leave me! Leave me alone!"

Peter took a deep breath because he was shouting. When had he started to shout? He shouldn't shout at Davy, Davy didn't deserve this. He unclenched his fists, but all he could sense inside of himself was the anger still. It was all still there inside of him, waiting to be let out.

"I don't want Micky seeing me waste away to nothing. I don't want you or Mike too, either," Peter's voice was restrained, "And I can't give any of you the life you all deserve. We can't grow old together. Or have kids together. We can't get married, have a successful band, adopt a pet. I'm ruining your lives."

His words echoed inside of his own head. They almost seemed amplified, gnawing away at him with each repeated syllable.

"Stop it," Davy's voice was a mere whisper, but it was enough to give Peter pause.

He realized that Davy was crying. Big, fat tears rolled down Davy's cheeks, dribbling down his chin and plopping down onto his shirt below. Davy wasn't looking at Peter either. His eyes were trained on the floor, boring holes into the tiles below. There was the threat of regret looming in the back of Peter's mind, threatening to consume him, extinguishing the flames of rage inside of him. He waited for Davy to say something else. Anything else. Peter was at a loss for words, he didn't know how to continue. That left Davy to make the next move and the feeling of helplessness crawled up Peter's back.

"You know how I feel about you," Davy mumbled after a moment, "You're the only guy who's ever validated me and my preferences. You're the one who first ever called me bisexual. Gave me the words to be able to describe myself, find myself. And I can't… I can't even imagine how you're feeling right now, but it's not as if we're feeling any better. We're all shit scared, Peter. Mike's a wreck, even worse than Micky, but he just doesn't let on how torn up he is inside. He bottles it all up and waits to deal with it when he can't possibly bottle anything else up. Micky's broken down at the grocery store at least twice this week alone. We aren't unaware of what PCP means for you. And what it means for us."

Davy paused to take a deep breath and wipe away the tear stains on his cheeks. Peter felt the regret seeping into his pores, dampening the anger inside of him just as he had thought it would. The regret and guilt was settling comfortably in his stomach, making him feel sick.

"But it isn't as if you know you won't make it past six months. You could very well outlive six months. It's happened before. And even though we're all scared, we know we'll be together. No matter what. That, whatever happens, we're going to face it as a unit. Because we're a family, Peter. You and me and Micky and Mike. Nothing's going to change that. Whether you die tomorrow, or six months from now, or a year from now, we'll always be together. And that's all that matters. Because I know that if any of us had our positions switched with you, you'd be with us till the end. And you can try to push us away. You can scream at us and hit us, whatever you fancy, but it won't change the fact that we're in this together," Davy sounded so sure of himself by the time he finished speaking.

He looked up at Peter and this time it was Peter who averted his gaze. There was a circling silence that was threatening to drown Peter, sweep him into it's forever abyss of nothingness as he sat in a bed that felt more like a prison.

"I-," his voice cracked, "I'm sorry, Davy."

What else could he say?

"I know," Davy said, hands wiping away the last of the tears.

There was a moment of silence. Then, Peter noticed that Davy's fingers were brushing against the bracelet that had all of their names engraved on it. He remembered the look on all three of his partners' faces on last year's Christmas Eve. They had all been so excited. And Peter remembered feeling so connected to them. He didn't want to leave them. He didn't want to die. A rush of overwhelming panic nearly choked Peter. A sob ripped through him.

"Oh god," Peter wailed, "I don't want to die."

He couldn't help but cry. It felt as if it were the only thing he could do. The feeling that was slowly strangling him left him no other option. This startled Davy, or at least it must have, because Peter was aware of the Englishman leaping from the chair to wrap his arms around Peter.

"Hey, it's okay," he distantly heard Davy tell him.

But all his mind could focus on was the fact that he wasn't ready to die. He wanted kids with his partners. He wanted to grow old with them. Adopt a pet with them. Be with them until the end of time. But they'd watch him slip away and nothing on this earth could prevent that. Davy held Peter as he cried and Peter felt horribly guilty. Davy's grandfather had just died. Davy should be the one being held, not Peter. This wasn't fair to Davy, it just wasn't.

"I'm so sorry about your grandpa, fuck Davy, I'm so sorry," Peter hiccuped.

Davy rubbed Peter's back, gently moving in a circular fashion.

"It's alright, Peter, really it's okay," Davy assured him.

But Davy's words only made Peter feel worse. He needed to stop crying. Stop sniveling like a child. Peter took a deep breath and forced himself to stop. At first, nothing happened. The tears still trickled down his cheeks, but eventually they did stop. A moment or so after Peter had stopped crying, Davy moved back to the chair. And a little while after that, Dr. Cole came in to check up on Peter.

As Mike approached Peter's hospital room, an uneasy feeling of panic began to settle in his stomach. Davy and Dr. Cole were exiting the room, and Davy seemed a little shook up. Had something bad happened to Peter? Mike picked up his speed, praying to God nothing had happened.

"Is something wrong?" he asked as soon as he came into earshot.

Mike observed the worried, uncertain look that Davy threw in the direction of Dr. Cole.

"Peter was just crying. He'll be alright for now, I think. He has been through alot lately," Dr. Cole replied, "But I would like you two to follow me to my office."

"Why?" Davy sounded almost defensive, as if he were readying himself fight with Dr. Cole in that hallway.

"Just to talk about a few things as Peter near's his release date, that's all," Dr. Cole spoke with an air of confidence and calm that made even Mike a little less nervous.

"Alright," Mike nodded his head.

As they followed Dr. Cole down the hallway, Davy slipped his hand into Mike's. For a moment, Mike wasn't sure if he should do anything, but he decided to gently squeeze Davy's hand in return. Mike wanted Davy to know that he was there for him. Even if a large part of him hated himself for loving Davy, nothing would stop him from being their for his family. That was what John had taught him. That was what Peter had taught him. And if two of the most important people in Mike's life were agreeing that one shouldn't let self-hate destroy the life you wanted to live, then Mike was damn well going to listen to them. Or at the very least try his hardest.

Dr. Cole lead them into a cramped little office that was off to the side of a hallway. The doctor took a seat behind a cluttered desk, scanning it for a moment before sweeping a few folders into a pile and setting them aside. There was only one chair in front of the desk that Dr. Cole sat at and Mike motioned towards it, indicating that Davy should sit down. Davy gave Mike a grateful look before lowering himself down into the cushioned chair. Mike kept his hand on Davy's shoulder as he stood behind the smaller man. It was hard to stay relaxed but Mike forced himself to remain calm. Maybe if he appeared calm on the outside, he'd start to feel calm on the inside. Mike kept wondering if perhaps something was wrong with Peter. The idea sent shivers down his spine. What could Dr. Cole want to talk about? Would Peter have to stay longer in the hospital?

"Okay," Dr. Cole began, cracking his knuckles absentmindedly, "First of all, don't worry. I'm not a bearer of bad news today, Peter's right on track for being let out in a week. His recovery is going well. Granted, I want to give him a day or two off after he's been let out before we put him back on AZT, just to give his body a break."

"Won't that be dangerous?" Davy asked.

"No, I don't think so. I think it'll do the opposite of harm really," Dr. Cole replied, "Either way, I'd like to give him a break. Just for a day or two. But I'm also going to recommend a counselor. Julie Marks. She's been doing great work with AIDS patients, and I think it'd be beneficial for Peter to see her. You two, and Micky, could both see her as well. Either separately or as a trio, but I think it'd be good for all of you to see her individually at least once. Just to… work things out and keep level heads."

Mike felt a knot inside of his stomach, a big stone weighing him down. He felt that at any moment the floor beneath him might crumble away, plummeting Mike down to the floor below. Why did he feel this way? What was making him feel so sick? He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"So she's good?" Davy asked.

Mike wondered if Davy was holding it together as well as he sounded. Was Davy feeling just as uncertain and frightened as Mike was feeling on the inside? Or were they both just very good at putting on a brave face? It was likely the second, but Mike found himself wanting to believe that Davy was as put together as he sounded. He wanted Davy to be okay, to be level-headed and strong so that he didn't have to be.

"Yeah, she's a friend of mine, too. We work together. I send her patients and she gives them a discount," Dr. Cole replied, a flicker of a smile appearing on his face, almost as if he were sharing in some sort of joke.

"Alright," Mike nodded, "We'll check her out."

Dr. Cole looked around for a moment. Mike thought he looked a little frazzled. For a brief second, Mike wondered what the doctor's life was like. He knew that the AIDS ward at this hospital was understaffed, with just a few nurses and doctors willing to treat the scary disease. Mike had once heard rumor that a hospital in Florida had flown a man to UCLA all because they didn't want to treat him. They had just shipped him out, without a rela thought. That man had died, obviously. Did Dr. Cole ever get a break? Or was he always on call? Mike assumed he got breaks, but at the same time, he could also see Dr. Cole working through his own breaks in order to give other staff members a chance to relax. Did he sleep well at night?

"Good, good," Dr. Cole nodded and then his face lit up.

He grabbed a pencil and scribbled down something, handing it over to Davy. Mike caught a glance of the counselor's name on the piece of paper, along with a series of numbers that Mike assumed was her phone number and what appeared to be an address underneath that.

"Thank you, Dr. Cole," Davy said as he pocketed the slip of paper.

Dr. Cole showed them out of his office, wishing them a goodnight. The pair walked down the hallway in silence for a moment. Mike hated how dark the hospital corridors seemed at night. He vaguely remembered having a nightmare where he would wander snakelike corridors that lead always to a dead end. When had he dreamt about that? He recalled that the nightmare had been reoccuring, happening several times, one after another. But he couldn't remember when. It probably hadn't been too long ago.

"Are you going home still?" Davy's question almost spooked Mike, he had been so deep in thought.

"Um, I suppose," Mike replied, rubbing the back of his neck, "But if you'd rather go home, get some proper rest before your flight tomorrow, I could always stay here tonight."

Mike gave Davy a sidelong glance, waiting to see what the smaller man would say. He was going through alot right now and if Mike had had the power he'd make Davy go home and sleep in a proper bed. Sleeping here at the hospital was achievable, but it was nothing compared to sleep in an actual house. The smaller man seemed dejected, exhausted. Frankly, he probably needed more sleep then anyone.

"No, I want to spend the night with Peter. I'll come home in the morning to get my bag before you drive me to the airport," Davy replied.

Mike squeezed Davy's hand in a manner that Mike hoped seemed reassuring. He wanted all of his condolences and love to be transferred in that one gentle squeeze. But Mike wasn't entirely convinced if it was doing the trick. Still, it was the thought that counted, right?

"Are you sure?" Mike asked.

"Yeah," Davy nodded his head and offered Mike a smile.

"Alright, if you're sure," Mike said, smiling in return.

They walked back to Peter's hospital room in silence, holding hands. Mike found it surprisingly normal, holding Davy's hand. Ever since John had suggested rings and an exchanging of promises, Mike had found being affection towards his partners more natural. It was a very odd phenomenon. He had even kissed Micky on the cheek a few days ago, the day when he had told Micky and Davy about the idea. They had been overjoyed, thinking it a very appropriate thing to do. Mike said his goodbye to Peter, who was asleep, and made sure Davy didn't need anything else before he left. He didn't, so Mike departed from the hospital. On the drive back to the pad, Mike kept the radio off and the windows down. The night air whipped against Mike's face and he felt a sense of calm wash over him. In a few days, Peter would be out of the hospital. Mike was excited to have Peter out of the hospital. Excited to be closer to the exchange ceremony. Excited just to be here, to exist in this moment.

He suddenly remembered that the day after tomorrow would also be test day. Every three months, which was the recommended number of months to wait before getting tested after an exposure to AIDS or HIV, he and Davy and Micky all got tested. Their three month marker would be the day after tomorrow and they'd be getting tested. A butterfly blossomed inside of Mike's stomach and fluttered around. He knew his test would come back negative but there was always the chance that perhaps this time would be different. This time he'd find out he's HIV positive. That he has AIDS, or had the possibility of developing it at any rate. The thought filled Mike with an unreal terror, a terror that he did not feel unless he forced himself to feel it. It was a ghost of a feeling, something that lingered in the back of his mind.

How Peter was making it through this whole ordeal was beyond Mike. But he was also very glad that Peter was doing his best. These days, Mike didn't think far into the future. It made his skin crawl and tears sting his eyes. The future meant thinking about Peter dying or dead. Even now, Mike's skin was crawling as if ants had buried themselves underneath and his eyes brimmed with tears. Now Peter wouldn't even be buried in L.A, where his home was. Instead, his dead lifeless body would be shipped like a forgotten package all the way to Connecticut where his family would probably claim he died of cancer or something stupid like that. They wouldn't have the balls to say what really killed him. God forbid, the word get out there their son died of the gay plague. And when Davy and Micky and Mike showed up to pay their respects to their dead lover, Peter's parents would either kick them out or refer to them as Peter's "very good friends", or at least that's what Peter had warned them of. It would be everything Peter didn't want and whenever Peter talked about it, Mike could see the pain in his facial expression, albeit carefully masked.

 _BEEEEP! BEEEEP!_

Mike swerved to the left, getting back into his lane, as a small car whizzed by, still honking at Mike. His eyes had been clouded by tears and he'd been so lost in his own thoughts that he had drifted into the right lane. Heart pounding, Mike felt a rush of adrenaline. He had nearly died himself. Just then. A shiver ran down Mike's spine and he drove the rest of the way without thinking, eyes glued to the road, a numb sensation freezing him to the spot and putting him into autopilot. Around 10:00 PM, Mike pulled into the driveway. Parking the car, he sat in the dark for a moment, catching his breath. He was still a little shaky. It felt odd to have nearly faced death, and have that death be something as simple and ordinary as a car collision. Taking a deep breath, Mike got out of the car and locked it.

Inside, he found Micky eating a bowl of ice cream. As Mike sat down next to him at the kitchen table, the curly haired man pushed the bowl towards Mike and offered him the spoon. Mike took the spoon and took a bite of the ice cream. They shared it between the two of them, eating in silence until there was nothing left but a puddle of melted chocolate at the bottom of the bowl. Micky got up and washed the bowl out, putting it in the sink for a more thorough cleaning later. Mike watched Micky the whole while. Maybe it was the feeling of normalcy or maybe it was the near death experience, but Mike found himself feeling lucky to have someone like Micky in his life. Without thinking, Mike stood up and wrapped his arms around Micky's neck, pressing his lips against Micky's.

"Mmm," Micky pulled his face away from Mike's, "What's all this about?"

"I'm happy," Mike replied honestly, "Peter'll be home soon. I got home safely. You're here, and wonderful."

"Why, Mike Nesmith, you sound like some sort of queer," Micky fake gasped, feigning astonishment.

"Coming from the queen herself, that's rich," Mike hit back and then kissed Micky again.

They stood in the embrace of one another for a moment, hands exploring underneath shirts, until Micky suggested they go upstairs. Feeling exhilarated, even a little intoxicated, Mike agreed. The two of them stumbled upstairs and fell into bed.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Happy New Year everyone! It's 2017 and that means the end is near! Soon I will be finishing up this project, but I can talk about that at a later date. For now, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Again, I urge anyone to research more into the topic of the 1980s AIDS epidemic (such as And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts or a google search) because although I have tried for accuracy as best I can, I'm not a historian or a doctor & this is a work of fiction, purely for my own enjoyment, so some discrepancies will occur. I want to take a moment to thank everyone who has been reading & enjoying this fic so far. I appreciate every review & favorite that I receive on this fic and you guys really made my 2016. Happy New Year everyone & pls look forward to a new chapter soon.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning, Micky made toast and eggs, serving them to Mike and himself in bed. Why exactly he did this was a little beyond Micky. It just felt right, like something he should do. Plus, it was honestly born out of the selfish want for toast and eggs. Davy wouldn't be home for another hour or so, giving them both time to have a good breakfast. They ate in silence, both of them taking a moment to really enjoy their meal, and then talked about nothing in particular after the food was gone. Micky had to admit that it felt very good to be so comfortable with Mike. Even though Micky hated that Peter had gotten AIDS, there were some benefits to it, this being one of them of course. Micky was very proud of how far Mike had come out of the closet. He soaked up the morning, enjoying every moment of it. But there was a sort of misty black cloud that Micky felt hung low over everything. This moment should have been a perfectly fine, wonderful moment, yet there was the constant present melancholy, albeit in the background. It hovered just above his shoulders, waiting for the ripe opportunity to come along and pounce on Micky.

Eventually, Micky and Mike went downstairs. There were things to do and their day eventually had to start properly. Mike cleaned up the dishes from breakfast in bed and Micky double checked that Davy's overnight back was all packed. He'd only be gone three days so there wasn't much he had needed to pack. But it felt as if he was leaving for a whole month, opening up a void within Micky that he wasn't entirely sure how to feel about. All of Davy's things were neatly packed and Micky brought the bag out into the living room area of the pad. Micky wandered over towards the television, wondering if anything on was any good, but then the phone rang. He glanced over towards the kitchen and watched as Mike picked it up from its cradle.

"Hello?" the lanky guitarist answered.

Micky observed Mike's face, trying to deduce who was on the phone. Was it Davy? Or Dr. Cole? Had something happened to Peter? Who the hell was calling them? He felt his insides tighten as he readied himself for bad news. It had to be bad news. But Mike's face didn't seem distressed. In fact, he didn't look anywhere near distressed or upset. Instead, his facial features were pulled into an expression of interest and puzzlement. Almost as if the person on the other end of the line was telling Mike a particularly hard riddle or something.

"Oh, hi Donny," Mike said.

At the mention of a name, Micky relaxed. Donny was one of his and Peter's friends. Davy had dated Donny for a while, a few years back, but Davy had broken it off after Donny had given Davy gonorrhea. There was never any real bad blood between the two though. They remained rather good friends and hung out quite often.

"Um, yeah, Micky's here," Mike glanced over towrds Micky, motioning for him to come over to the phone. "Hold on a sec, I'll get him."

Confused, Micky went over and took the phone from Mike, wondering why exactly Donny would be calling them. Mike stood close by, so that he could overhear the conversation, at least a little bit. Micky brought the phone up to his ear.

"Hello?" he said.

"Hi, Micky," Donny sounded cheerful, as per usual.

"Donny, how are you?" Micky asked.

"Oh, just fabulous darling, even though it seems like the whole world is ending," Donny replied with a little laugh.

Donny didn't have AIDS and he wasn't yet positive, but like most guys a lot of his friends were dying or dead. He had always been a very political guy, even before, and so these days he organized a lot of protests and stuff. There was always something that Donny was up to.

"Well that's good to hear," Micky said.

"How are you? How is Peter?" Donny asked after a moment.

"I'm alright, hanging in there," Micky answered, "And Peter's doing just fine. He'll be out of the hospital soon."

"Good, that's fantastic," Donny declared.

The smile could be heard in his voice, a smile composed of a mixture of sadness and pleasant surprise. Or maybe not surprise, Micky wasn't sure. Micky wondered if this was simply just a social call. It didn't really matter either way, Micky reminded himself. The more cheerful tinge to Donny's voice made Micky smile. He could picture the toothy grin that Donny probably had plastered upon his face.

"Yeah, 'suppose it is," Micky agreed.

Mike kept giving Micky weird looks and Micky waved a hand at the Texan. If Mike was so eager to know what Donny was saying, he should have just kept the phone himself. The last thing he needed was Mike on his ass about what was going on.

"Look, Micky, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind coming down to the center. I'm holding a meeting about what it's like to have a partner with AIDS, just so people have a place to vent. It's been pretty popular and I thought you could come down and talk about your experience, since it's so unique to have one partner have AIDS while the other isn't even positive," Donny said.

"Oh," Micky was taken aback by Donny's request.

There was a beat of silence. Micky wasn't sure if Donny was finished speaking or not. Mike was still giving Micky weird looks, still wanting to know what was going on.

"Plus," Donny added, "I thought maybe you could use a good vent. I haven't seen you or Davy around recently. I know it must be tough on you guys."

The word unique echoed in Micky's head, leaving a sickening aftertaste in his mouth. Rarity meant the possibility that it would all come crashing down. That it should come crashing down sooner or later. That it wasn't possible. Being unique simply indicated that it was only a matter of time.

"Well, you don't have to speak, if you don't want to. Vince will be talking about how he lost Benny. And Francis was supposed to come, but he canceled last minute," Donny's voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper, "I don't think his partner's doing very well. He was diagnosed all the way back in the beginning. It's a miracle he lasted even this long. I'll bet we'll be attending a funeral soon."

Vince and Benny were an older couple, the two guys that had really brought Micky's and Davy's friend groups into one larger network. Benny had been Peter's friend first and Davy had befriended Vince through a mutual lover. They'd been together for twenty-five years and before Peter had gotten his own diagnosis, he'd often help Vince out with taking care of Benny. Now it was another friend, Thomas if Micky were remembering correctly. At the mention of Benny dying, Micky felt his stomach tighten and he felt the beginnings of a headache. The look Mike was giving still him made Micky feel as if he were bathed in the light of a spotlight, as if he were on some sort of stage. Why exactly he felt like this was beyond his grasp.

"No, no I'll speak," Micky immediately replied as soon as Donny stopped speaking.

He didn't want Donny to think that Micky wasn't ready to speak about everything. Why, he wasn't entirely sure. Why did he feel the need to almost prove himself to Donny? Mike arched an eyebrow, mouthing the words 'what's going on?'. Again, Micky waved his hand at Mike, brushing off his question.

"Great!" Donny exclaimed.

Micky could hear the smile in Donny's voice again.

"Um, is it alright if I bring Mike?" Micky quickly added, praying that Donny wouldn't hang up immediately, lest he not hear Micky's question.

"Of course. You could even bring Davy. Bring anyone you want! It's open to the public. It starts at three this afternoon, there's usually only a handful of people attending," Donny answered.

"Alright, see you then," Micky said goodbye and hung up the phone.

"What happened?" Mike demanded as soon as he possibly could.

He seemed a little peeved that Micky had just avoided his unspoken questions.

"Donny's holding some sort of meeting about or for partners with AIDS. He wants me to speak about what it's been like with Peter," Micky explained, "Do you want to come with me? It's at three."

Mike's brows were slightly creased and he looked as if he were deep in thought. Micky wondered if he even truly wanted Mike to come with him. Maybe this was something he should do on his own? But Mike had every right to speak. Peter was not just Micky's. A cynical voice in the back of Micky's head reminded him that lack of monogamy was what got Peter into the mess he was in now. There was a twinge of almost jealous in his heart. But it was quickly soothed over with the reminder that Mike might have also been Peter's lover, but so was Micky.

"I suppose I could," Mike eventually shrugged, almost hesitantly.

"Well you have a little bit to think about it, if you change your mind," Micky said, unsure if Mike would rather have the option to come.

Mike nodded and they seemed to lapse into a silence that Micky felt uncomfortable in. But it didn't last for too long. As if cued by some unseen force, Davy entered the pad. Micky's face lit up. He was a wonderful sight.

"I have your bag on the couch, all ready to go," Micky bounded over to the smaller man.

"Oh," Davy glanced over at the couch and then smiled at Micky, "Thanks, mate."

There was something about the way Davy was holding himself that made Micky feel a little weird, on the inside. He couldn't exactly place what the feeling was, whether it was a good weird or a bad weird. Was it even a weird feeling at all? Micky wasn't sure. But something was there, some sort of vague emotion just out of Micky's grasp of understanding. The singer had dark rings under his eyes, but there was still a sparkle to those coffee colored eyes of his. His shoulders were slightly hunched, but it still looked as if he were holding himself up straight. Micky felt a pang of something, a different emotion now that was equally out of grasp as the first.

"It's no problem," Micky beamed, feeling uncertain.

"How's Peter?" Mike asked from the kitchen.

He hadn't moved yet. A flash of something crossed Davy's face, disappearing like a shadow in the dark. It looked almost as if Davy were trying to hide something but Micky wasn't entirely sure.

"He's alright. He was asleep for most of the night and this morning," Davy replied as he picked up his bag from off the couch, slinging it over his shoulder.

"And you?" Mike continued.

"I'm okay," Davy admitted, "A little tired, but I'm eager to get on the plane."

"Do you have time for a shower or some breakfast?" Mike wondered.

"I don't think so," Davy answered, "I don't want to miss my flight. It'd be best to just get going."

"Oh, well I wouldn't want you to miss your flight either," Mike agreed.

Micky heard him moving, felt him come closer, watched as Mike pulled Davy into a hug. The black cloud, pregnant with mixed emotions, lurked inside of Micky. He watched as Davy rose onto the balls of his feet, standing on tiptoe in order to press his lips against Mike's, and even then Mike had to lean down a little. Had Micky not suddenly been in a slightly sour mood, he might have found it humorous. It was ridiculous, this sudden change of mood, and Micky knew it. He chastised himself for being like this.

"I'll miss you while you're gone," Mike admitted as the two men parted.

"I'm not going to be gone long," Davy reminded him.

The headache that Micky had felt coming on was now slowly beginning to pound away at his skull, like a construction worker starting their job. Davy brushed his hand against Mike's arm. They said goodbye and Davy turned towards Micky, looking at him expectantly.

"You ready?" he asked.

It seemed it was time for Micky to drive Davy to the airport.

"Yeah," Micky nodded and turned to Mike, embracing him with a hug, "I'll see you later."

Mike flashed Micky a bright smile and leaned forward, pecking him on the cheek. Davy exchanged a similar last goodbye with Mike before the two men walked out of the pad. Davy clambered into the passenger's side, his carry-on luggage sitting snugly in his lap. Micky took his seat in the driver's side. They pulled out of the driveway and sped towards the airport. There was a comfortable enough silence within the cab of the car, yet in the pit of his stomach Micky was anticipating something to happen. Somehow he knew that there was something that Davy needed to get off his chest before he left the country.

"You think he'll be alright while I'm gone, right?" Davy wondered, almost to himself, after a moment.

Micky didn't have to ask who Davy was referring to. And Micky believed that he already understood where Davy was coming from. Davy leaving marked the first time that they'd really be split up. During December, when Mike and Peter had visited Peter's family, it had been different. In some way, they had still been together, just split up into pairs. But this time, it was just Davy, going off alone all the way to England. All the way across the world, it seemed. Micky stole a quick glance of Davy before returning his gaze back to the road.

"Peter'll be a-okay, Davy, don't you worry," Micky reassured his smaller friend.

Micky saw Davy turn his head towards the window out of the corner of his eye. Had something gone wrong at the hospital? Micky felt as if there was something Davy was hiding and it was slowly driving Micky crazy, his headache only making things worse. A chilling thought then occurred to him. He and Mike were getting their tests done tomorrow, but Davy had had his done yesterday. Maybe he had been told that he was positive. What would that mean then, if Davy were positive? What would they do?

"Davy," Micky began, unsure of how to broach the topic and feeling oddly heavy, as if his body were suddenly made out of lead. "Your tests results, they didn't come back positive, did they?"

"No, of course not," Davy almost spat his words out.

The horror in his voice gave Micky pause. He glanced at Davy, needing the reassurance that he was alright. Davy's cheeks were flushed and he was staring down at his luggage. Was he angry? This was not at all the sort of reaction Micky had anticipated from Davy.

"Sorry," Davy mumbled, almost immediately. "No, my results were negative."

Micky let out a puff of air, relieved that it wasn't Davy's tests results that were bothering him. So that left the question of what was on Davy's mind? Micky knew there was something weighing on the man. Why else would he have lashed out like that?

"It's alright," Micky nodded his head, "I'm glad your negative."

Was that the right thing to say? Micky hoped that Davy would share with him his troubles on his own, without Micky having to directly ask him. It'd make him feel less weird. It was weird to try to pry, stick his nose in things that might not necessarily want his nose.

"Me, too," Davy agreed, then lapsed into silence.

For a little bit, Micky just drove, allowing them to sit in the lull of conversation. He wanted to know what was up with Davy but, at the same time, he didn't want to push anything. He didn't want his nose in Davy's business if Davy didn't want it there. Davy had, after all, just lost his grandfather. A lot of emotions were probably balled up inside of the small man and Micky didn't want Davy to feel any sort of added pressure on top of that.

"I'm just…," Davy began but his voice sounded small, far away.

Micky felt as if he wanted to put words into Davy's mouth, but he held his tongue. He waited for Davy to find the right words on his own.

"Fuck," Davy sharply inhaled, "Micky, fuck, I just don't… I don't know if I can take all of this anymore."

"What are you talking about?" Micky couldn't help but blurt out.

He was taken aback. What was Davy saying? Did he want to leave Peter? Leave Mike and Micky? An almost overwhelming sense of panic threatened to drown Micky but he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road, tethering him to reality. Whatever Davy was talking about, whatever Davy was trying to decide, Micky would support him.

"I don't know," Davy's voice cracked, "I hate seeing Peter like this. I hate feeling so useless. I feel like I'm abandoning him. I…. It's not him I hate though. It's this fucking shit. AIDS. Or fate. Or-or… I don't know."

Micky could tell that Davy was crying. His shoulders were shaking slightly. Micky wanted to lean over and pull Davy into a hug. But that was impossible. He was driving.

"It'll be alright, Davy," Micky tried to reassure his friend.

It was the next best thing to a hug. Micky hoped it was like a verbal hug.

"It's easy to say that," Davy sniffled, "He thinks we're wasting our time on him."

Micky felt his chest tighten, a nearly blinding panic taking a hold of his body. Stay focused, he told himself. Stay focused, you're driving.

"Peter thinks that?" Micky echoed, almost in disbelief.

"He told me he doesn't want us watching him waste away. He wants us to get on with our lives before he's even dead," Davy sounded so very sad, so very broken.

Micky wanted to reach out to him, pull him into a hug and take away all of it. Why couldn't he give Davy a hug? He was driving. God, why couldn't he take it all away? Davy didn't deserve this, none of them did.

"Well…," Micky didn't know what to say, but he had to say something. "We aren't wasting our time. We love each other. We'll get through this."

Davy didn't say anything to that. Micky risked a glance at the smaller man. He was staring straight ahead now. He looked like a child, sitting in the front seat for the first time. He looked so small, so vulnerable. Again, Micky had the urge to embrace him.

"My grandda always liked you three," Davy said, quietly and slowly, after a moment, "Whenever I called him, he'd ask about you guys. He'd ask how are those boys. And I'd reply with they're alright."

Davy paused, leaving a moment for Micky to respond. But Micky didn't know what to say. Was there anything he could say, even if he wanted to? So Micky didn't say anything, even though he felt like he should have.

"I told him about Peter," Davy continued, "I said, grandda my friend Peter has AIDS. He knew it was the gay disease. He asked me if I had it, too. I said no. He cried. He said he was very sorry about Peter. And that he was very proud of me. I might have never told him about me, but I think he figured it out, one way or another."

"But he never asked," Micky pointed out.

He felt useless. It stung like a thorn in his side.

"No. He wasn't the sort of man who'd stir the pot. I love my grandfather. And I'm so very sad that he's gone," Davy murmured, smiling as he dried his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Davy," Micky mumbled, unsure of what else he could say.

"It's alright, Micky," Davy laughed a little at himself, "Thanks for just letting me talk."

"I'd do anything for you," Micky nodded.

Mike ate an early lunch consisting of a ham and cheese sandwich. Then he had tidied up a bit, just sweeping a little and making sure all the dirty dishes were cleaned. Then he picked up the newspaper. With the pad empty, Mike found it increasingly necessary to keep himself occupied. The threat of his thoughts consuming him became a real danger in the seemingly tangible emptiness. By the time Micky finally came home, Mike had finished reading the paper and had moved on to a book that he was pretty sure had never been opened up until that point.

"How'd it go?" Mike asked, feeling a little stupid as soon as he asked such a weird question.

Who asked that kind of question? A right weirdo, that's who.

"Davy got onto the plane alright," Micky replied, flopping down onto the couch, sitting down right next to Mike.

"What are you reading?" Micky asked as soon as he spied the book.

He was peering over, trying to deduce what he was reading. Mike looked at the front cover. It was just blank and beige.

"I don't know," Mike admitted.

The laughter rumbled from inside of Micky's chest, tumbling out in a genuine manner that made Mike smile. He laughed too, only a little. Micky rested his head on Mike's shoulder.

"You want to come with me to Donny's thing?" Micky asked after a moment.

Mike tossed the book onto the coffee table nearby. He watched it land with an almost satisfying thud.

"Sure, it's not like I have anything else to do," Mike answered.

"I'm going to go change then," Micky said as he stood up, arms reaching upwards towards the ceiling as he stretched out his limbs, "It's almost two. We can stop by the post office to mail the bills. And then after Donny's thing, we can go visit Peter."

"Alright," Mike nodded, watching as Micky made his way up the spiral staircase towards his bedroom.

Itching to get out of the house, Mike collected the few bills they had to mail and wandered out to the back porch that overlooked the beach. A cool breeze was drifting off the water and the sun was shining. Perfect surfing weather, as Peter had always put it, even though Mike doubted anyone would want to go surfing in these temperatures. It occurred to Mike then that the comment from his lover didn't really make sense. Peter didn't even know how to surf. Nevertheless, he made a mental note to tell Peter what the weather was like outside. A hollow feeling echoed inside of Mike, trying to grip the guitarist's heart. But before it could, Mike heard Micky hollering at him from inside the pad.

"C'mon, Mike. I'll be in the car!"

The post office was in the opposite direction of the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center but Mike and Micky found themselves still arriving early, at around 2:40 PM. Donny, forty-two years old and black hair combed over to hide a growing balding spot, was setting up chairs in a circle, off in one of the side rooms of the center. A lanky black woman was helping him.

"Need some more hands?" Micky asked as they entered the room.

Donny turned his head, his face breaking out into a broad grin as soon as he saw Micky and Mike.

"You guys made it!" he exclaimed, then motioned towards a few folded up chairs that were leaning against a nearby wall, "If you wouldn't mind setting those ones up, Cherry and I can go get the folding table for refreshments."

Micky nodded and Mike followed close behind him, eager to help out. He grabbed a chair and, with Micky's help, finished setting up the circle. As Donny and Cherry finished up the last touches on the small refreshment table, a few people began to shuffle in. Mike didn't recognize any of them but Micky greeted a few by name. There was a curly haired short man with thick glasses named Tommy. And then there was Nick, a thinning black man who Mike had met once at a holiday party ages ago. Mike vaguely remembered overhearing Davy tell Micky that Nick had gotten AIDS, but how long ago that had been was a mystery to Mike. There was Barney, Jose, Julian, Carl, Francis. And a few other people that Micky did not seem to know. Donny greeted each and everyone who entered the room. Mike watched in amazement as he greeted every man by their first name. How did he know all those people? Eventually, after grabbing a cup of juice or water and all the greetings had been exchanged, everyone took a seat in the circle. Mike and Micky sat close to Donny.

"Good afternoon, everyone," Donny began, looking around the circle with a smile that crinkled his face, "I'm glad to see such a good turnout for today's meeting. Today we'll be focusing on partners with AIDS and how the whole experience has been for each of you. We have a few specific speakers, but if anyone wants to say anything, just raise your hand. Everyone will have a chance to speak if they want to."

The first to speak was a man named Vince. He was quite old, although how old Mike couldn't exactly tell. Vince recalled the life he shared with his life partner, Benny Hosier, and discussed what it was like to have been diagnosed in the very beginning. Mike sat listening, a cold fear gripping him. How had these two men managed to take care of one another when they both were dying? It baffled and frightened Mike. He almost had the urge to get up and leave, but he didn't. He sat, motionless, listening to Vince. The next person was a man named Henry. He talked about how he had left his semi-permanent life partner in the middle of the night after his diagnosis. Only a month later, Henry had been diagnosed. The man professed his regret for his past actions, yet despite this Mike found himself appalled by even the thought of leaving someone like that. Without even a goodbye or an explanation. How cold hearted did that guy have to be?

Two other men went before Micky, one of which was a timid young looking man who had raised his hand. Everyone listened patiently and attentively to each of them, some of the men even cried. Mike found tears stinging his own eyes. After a while Mike began to feel out of place. He didn't have a right to be here. It was an irrational thought but Mike couldn't help but wonder why he was here. Only recently had he come to terms with his sexuality while these men sitting before him most likely had grappled with that demon years ago. Then Micky's turn came. Mike watched out of the corner of his eye as Micky shifted himself in his seat, hands hovering over his lap as if he didn't know where to put them or what to do with them.

"Um, hi," Micky began, smiling thinly at the group, "I'm Micky. My partner's name is Peter and it's been a few months since his diagnosis. I'm negative, but I get tested regularly. It's been-"

Micky's voice cracked a little and he paused to clear his throat. Mike rubbed his hand against his jeans, wondering if Micky would back out and decide not to speak. Mike would certainly not blame him.

"Sorry," Micky absentmindedly scratched at his chin, "It's been rough. The medicine seems to make things worse for Peter and his parents are just causing him more stress then he needs. Not to mention the stress I've had, along with our other two partners. Peter'll be out of hospital soon, so we're going to take a short trip. I think it will be nice but I'm worried it'll make things worse. Long term or short term, I'm not sure."

"I know what you mean," a curly haired man spoke up, "My friend, John, and I took a trip to Rome, and while there he got sick. I thought to myself, wow if only we hadn't come, maybe he'd never have gotten sick."

"It's better to take risks at this point. It's not like there's a lot to lose," another man countered.

"Bullshit," a man in the back swore.

Mike heard the anger in that man's voice and once again wondered what he was doing here. That man could have very well lost a loved one or was in the process of losing one. Mike felt like a lair. A fraud. But he kept reminding himself that even though he felt like that, it wasn't true. He was gay. Peter, his partner, was sick.

"Alright, alright," Donny spoke up, "We can have a free discussion, guys, but we have to keep it civil. Everyone reacts to this sort of stuff in different ways."

Donny asked Micky if he had anything else to add.

"I don't think so. Just that it's hard," Micky shrugged, slumping down into his seat a little.

Mike caught Micky's gaze and flashed him a brief smile. Micky offered Mike a small smile in return. Another man began to speak but Mike couldn't pay attention. He looked at Vince, the older man staring at his hands. Then towards Henry. Mike noticed that he was crying. Then the man with partner named John. Then finally back towards Micky. The man who was speaking stopped. There was a lull.

"Can I speak?" Mike blurted out, without really thinking.

Micky arched an eyebrow at Mike, questioning him without having to say a single word. Donny nodded his head. Mike felt his heart beat rapidly inside of his chest. What was he doing?

"Um… well I'm Mike. I'm… Peter's partner. Well… okay one of his partners, obviously. But. Anyways," Mike wasn't sure what he was doing and he felt his palms begin to sweat as he realized that everyone was looking at him, "I just wanted to say that-that, like Micky said, these past few months have been rough. I might be negative but I can't help but feel like that won't last long. But it doesn't matter. Even though I wish none of this was happening, to anyone, there's a part of me that's glad it happened. Because I wouldn't be able to say that I love Peter out loud. And I hate that part of me."

There was a slight shake to his voice, a clamminess to his palms. Why was everyone looking at him? He felt foolish and horribly naive. What on earth had possessed him to speak? He felt Micky's hand brush against his.

"I know how you feel," a blonde haired man spoke up, purple lesions hiding underneath the collar of his shirt, "I wouldn't wish this upon anyone but being diagnosed gave me the strength to come out to my mom. I always thought she'd be upset with me, but when I told her, all she did was cry and tell me she loved me. She's been… she's been with me this whole time."

Mike slipped his hand into Micky's, squeezing gently. He smiled at the blonde, who briefly smiled back. Donny thanked Mike for sharing and then another man began to speak. Three others went after him, taking up around twenty more minutes. After the last one finished, the woman who had helped Donny set up, Cherry, thanked everyone for coming and reminded them that there was a support group meeting here every Sunday and that there were more meetings like this in the future, just check with the front desk for times. The room became a solemn buzz of conversation as people began to file out of the room. Mike stood up and Micky pulled him close.

"Hey, I'm really proud of you for speaking," Micky said, a dopey grin on his face.

God, why was he smiling like that? It wasn't a big deal. Mike felt heat rise in his cheeks and he looked away.

"Stop it, will ya. It ain't nothing to be proud of," Mike mumbled.

Micky punched him lightly on the shoulder.

"Come on, Mike, talking about that was a huge step for you," Micky insisted, "Don't try to act tough or something."

Although Mike agreed with what Micky was saying, he still didn't want to make a big deal about any of this. It wasn't brave to speak. Mike wasn't brave. Peter was the one who was brave.

"We should hurry up and get to the hospital. I want to see Peter," Mike said.

Micky gave him a quizzical look but nodded.

"Alright," Micky agreed.

As Micky said a quick goodbye to Donny and a few other guys, Mike went outside and clambered into the driver's side. He started up the car, rolled down the windows, and waited for Micky to come out. There was a slight thrill that Mike felt inside of him. Mike would be able to tell Peter all about what had happened today. It didn't matter what Peter really said, or even how he reacted. Mike knew that, deep down, all he wanted to do was prove in some way or another that Mike was truly there for Peter. In it for the long run. Just like Micky and Davy. All Mike truly wanted was to be one of the guys, his guys.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for reading everyone! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I have about three more chapters to write so we're nearing the homestretch. Again, I encourage anyone who wants to know the real story of the 1980s AIDS epidemic to do outside research, as I am only a high school student, not a historian or a medical doctor. Although I did shoot for as accurate as possible, I know that inaccuracies did occur (I didn't live through the 80s and I don't have a medical degree). Thank you again to everyone who reads this fic and anyone who leaves a review/favorite. I appreciate every view, review, and favorite so much! I hope you all have a wonderful day! 3


	13. Chapter 13

They had slept at the hospital that night. Micky hadn't slept well, barely getting four hours of sleep maximum. Why he had slept so badly was beyond him, but it didn't matter much. He could always sleep later. There was almost all the time in the world for that. He went to the canteen and bought two cups of coffee, despite the fact that the coffee wouldn't be all that good. It was something though and Micky figured that it was enough for just then. He went back to the room, just in time to find Mike awake and stretching out his limbs.

"Good morning, beautiful," Micky greeted in a sing-song voice, handing him the cup of coffee.

He took a large gulp of his own scalding liquid, his eyes watering slightly in protest.

"Mmm," Mike took a sip and grimaced slightly before looking Micky up and down, "You look like shit."

It was a valid comment but Micky still pulled a look of shock, ready for a good joke. God, did he need a good laugh.

"That's the last thing you want to say to a lady," he chastised, trying to keep a straight face.

"Don't flatter yourself. You're an ugly old queen, Micky Dolenz, and I should know," Peter's sleepy voice cut in.

"I'm the youngest in the room, I'll have you know," Micky hit back, the smile creeping onto his face despite his best efforts.

He hadn't expected Peter to throw his own ring into the circle and it nearly had Micky in stitches. They spent the morning with Peter. A nurse brought Peter breakfast, a meal that consisted of just a little too much food so that Peter could easily share with his two lovers without having to really give up anything. Micky noted that it was a good morning for Peter. He seemed restless and antsy, itching to get out. A smile seemed to always be on his face and he talked freely about anything he could, especially how much he wanted to get out of the hospital. Mike kept reminding him that he'd be out of the hospital soon but until then he just needed to rest.

"I've rested enough," Peter grumbled, "It feels like all I do these days is rest."

"It's better than the alternative," Micky snapped.

He felt the sharp glare of Mike and watched as Peter's face faltered slightly. Micky regretted snapping at him, but he didn't say anything. Conversation moved on. Around noon, Mike and Micky left Peter and found Dr. Mark Andrews. Dr. Cole had taken a two day period off and in his place Dr. Andrews had come forth. By the look of exhaustion in his eyes, Micky guessed that the good old doctor was doing a good job of filling in the shoes that Dr. Cole had left. But maybe that was Micky just being ignorant. The man must have been taking care of patients alongside Dr. Cole for some time, he had only just now added a few more cases to his load to cover Dr. Cole. In fact, this wasn't even the first time the guys had interacted with Dr. Andrews.

"Ah, hi guys," Dr. Andrews beamed as soon as he saw Mike and Micky, "Right on time."

He finished checking a chart and then lead the pair down the hallway, ushering them into a free room. He took some blood from Mike first, then Peter, and then disappeared out of the room after informing the both of them that their results would be back soon. They sat in that room, just Micky and Mike, in silence for a moment. No one was around to kick them out, so why not take a little breather.

"Do you think Davy's plane ride went alright?" Micky asked after a while.

He absently kicked his feet backward and forward, the general feeling of anxiety already settled in his gut. Everything would be fine, he told himself firmly.

"Yeah, I think so," Mike replied, "I'm sure he'll call later today. But I wouldn't worry about him. He'll be fine."

Micky looked down at his sneakers. They were double knotted. Something his mother had taught him when he was little. He remembered trying to protest his mother, running around barefoot in the mud just to spite her. A stubborn little bastard, that's what he'd been as a child. The stubborn streak didn't end there either, rather it grew up with him, reflecting in his choice of clothing and, eventually, his questionable choice in lovers. Only after Micky's twenty-second birthday did he finally begin to appreciate his parents, truly and wholeheartedly appreciate them. Micky felt it was a shame he didn't begin to appreciate his parents sooner. At least he did now.

"Are you alright, Micky?" Mike asked, startling Micky out of his thoughts.

"Oh, yeah," Micky replied, glancing at Mike for a brief moment, "Just the usual nerves, you know."

Mike reached his hand out and took Micky's, intertwining their fingers. Micky felt a wave of reassurance wash over him.

"Don't worry about it, Micky," Mike said to him, "The results will be negative, just like they always are. There's no need to be nervous."

Micky ran his fingers through his hair, shaking out his curls a little. No need to be nervous. Micky wanted to argue with that but he didn't feel as if he had the energy.

"I'm just very tired, Mike," Micky admitted.

Mike leaned over and grabbed onto Micky's other hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"It's going to be okay, stop worryin', won't ya?" Mike insisted.

Micky nodded, feeling less scared then he had earlier. They sat in silence again for only a few minutes. A nurse came in after a while and said that they could find Dr. Andrews in his office, down the hall. She advised them to go in one at a time. Micky's heart rate began to pick up. This wasn't unusual or anything though. Everything was going to be fine. Micky kept repeating that in his head. Everything would be fine. Hand in hand, they walked down to Dr. Andrews office. Mike went first. Micky leaned against the wall across from the office, eyes trained up at the ceiling. It didn't take Mike long to emerge. He gave Micky thumbs up.

"Negative," he mouthed.

A wave of relief washed over Micky. He beamed and gave Mike a peck on the cheek before entering the office himself. Dr. Andrews was sitting behind his desk, shuffling through paperwork. There was no rest for the wicked it seemed. He glanced up as Micky entered.

"Have a sit, will you," Dr. Andrews motioned towards the plastic chair in front of the desk.

Micky sat down and watched as Dr. Andrews set aside the paperwork he had been looking at. He picked up a piece of paper and propped a pair of glasses onto the bridge of his nose. Micky could feel his heartbeat speed up again. This time it felt like his heart was trying to leap out of his chest or, he reasoned, as if he'd just sniffed a popper. The first time he'd ever partaken in that particular drug, Micky had been convinced he was having a heart attack. That's what it felt like now.

"Alright, Micky," Dr. Andrews began, "I won't beat around the bush or anything. You've probably already guessed that something's wrong."

The beating stopped and Micky felt as if he were free falling, his stomach lurching as if he were plummeting off a cliff. Here it came. Nothing to worry about. How had he lied so easily to himself? Nothing to be scared of. Stop worrying. Everything will be fine.

"Your test results came back positive, Micky," Dr. Andrews continued, "Your CD4 count is far below 500, the average count. But it hasn't dropped past 200 yet. Right now, it's at 329. As of right now, you don't have AIDS, even though your CD4 count is a little too close to 200 for my liking, but you do have HIV."

What was the difference? Micky wanted to cry but there were no tears. There wasn't any difference. It was only a matter of time. He wanted to scream but he couldn't find the strength.

"So… what happens now?" Micky managed to ask.

"Well, right now, I just want you to monitor your health and I want to test you again in about a week, just to see if your count will drop," Dr. Andrews replied.

"Can't I be put on any sort of medication?" Micky asked, feeling as if there should be more he could do.

Dr. Andrews was a doctor. He should have an answer to this, one that could help him now.

"I'm sorry, Micky, but there's not much else either of us can do. At this stage, I don't want to put you on anything until we're sure what's going on. I will look into some medications you can probably start on in a week or two," Dr. Andrews answered.

Until we're sure? What did that mean? Micky didn't want that kind of answer. Micky wanted to cry, to scream, to fall apart. But what could he do? He couldn't fall apart. He was panicking. He had to calm down. He took a deep breath. A shaky inhale. A shaky exhale.

"I'm scheduling you for a checkup this time next week," Dr. Andrews explained, "To get everything in order."

Micky nodded. He told the doctor thank you, even though it felt hollow and wrong, like it was a lie. Then he exited the office. Mike was not in the hallway. He probably had gone back to Peter's room. Another wave of panic overtook Micky. He staggered and grabbed onto the wall, using it to help keep him upright. How was he supposed to tell Mike? Davy? God, how was he supposed to tell Peter? The image of Mike, smiling and mouthing the word negative, came to him then. That wouldn't be Micky. Everything seemed to be slipping away from him, right before his very own eyes.

"Excuse me, sir, are you alright?" a nurse asked.

The suddenness of the nurse's question startled Micky. Where had he come from? Micky glanced at him.

"Um," Micky wasn't sure if he was or not, "I don't know."

"Do you need any assistance? Are you a patient here?" the nurse asked.

"My partner, he's here. He has AIDS," Micky replied.

The nurse's face fell, a look of understanding overcoming him then.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," he said.

"Thanks," Micky nodded, "I… I'm going to go back to his room."

"Are you sure you're alright?" the nurse asked.

"Yes," Micky said, even though he still wasn't sure.

It was like deja vu. It was Peter telling him that he had AIDS all over again. Had Peter felt like this? Like the whole world was ending and that nothing had really changed, all at the same time. He walked back to Peter's room, finding Mike sitting next to Peter. Peter was asleep. He had to seem normal. He had to seem as if nothing was wrong. Telling Mike here, and now, was not what Micky wanted. Keep it together, Micky demanded of himself. Keep it together.

"All he talked about while you weren't here was how he's gettin' out of here in three days," Mike chuckled as soon as Micky entered the room.

"You didn't tell him about the surprise, did you?" Micky found it surprisingly easy to fake a cheerful tone.

"Of course I didn't. I ain't gonna spoil it for him," Mike said.

"Are you still picking up the rings today?" Micky asked.

It felt odd. This whole exchange felt odd. Mike hadn't even asked Micky what his results had been. Oh god, Micky thought, he's assuming I'm negative. The thought made him feel queasy. The room spun a little. He was still panicking. Christ, he needed to calm down.

"I gotta," Mike answered, "Unless you wanna get them. The shop won't keep them for more than a day or two and I don't want them being given away or thrown out or something."

"You can go get them," Micky replied, "I was just wondering."

It would give him time to think of how to tell Mike. A part of him wished that Davy were here. That Davy could be the first one to know. Maybe it'd be easier. But another part of Micky was relieved that it was Mike. Despite the churning emotions inside of him, he was glad that it was Mike he'd have to tell first. That way, if Mike lashed out, Micky could handle him by himself. But what if Mike decided to leave? Having two partners with AIDS might be too much for him. Micky felt his legs wobble.

"Alrighty then," Mike nodded, "I can drop you off at home then, before I go to pick up the rings."

Micky agreed to this and then fell silent. They stayed at the hospital for a little while longer, eating a meager dinner in the canteen at one point. Peter stayed asleep for most of the time they were there, momentarily waking confused at some point. Eventually Micky and Mike said their goodbyes and slipped out of the hospital. The sun was only just setting and Mike dropped Micky off at the pad before driving away. Finally alone, Micky sat down on the couch and stared at the wall for a moment. Then, as if in small sections, Micky's shoulders slumped and he began to cry. Breathing was difficult as the sobs made him shake. How had he let this happen? How was he supposed to tell Mike? Peter? Davy? He felt like an utter failure.

The rings were no trouble to pick up. Davy had preordered them at some jewelry shop the week before. They were just four simple silver bands, nothing special, there wasn't even any engravings in them. Why they needed to be preordered was beyond Mike, but the knowledge that they were in his jean pocket made him feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. He couldn't wait for next week, specifically next Saturday, when they'd head up to John's cabin. On Sunday morning, they'll surprise Peter with the ceremony and then they'd take things from there. It was going to be wonderful, Mike was sure of it. How could it not be? He pulled up into the driveway and put the car in park. It was dark outside now and Mike considered making some tea. Although it wasn't remotely cold outside, Mike thought that perhaps a heated beverage might end the night on a high note. He entered the pad and paused, flipping on a light in order to illuminate the dark pad. Micky was curled up on the couch, asleep. Smiling, Mike walked over to him and prodded him awake.

"If you're tired, let me take you upstairs to bed," Mike offered as Micky blinked blearily up at him.

Instead of a snappy remark or a look of contented humor, as Mike had expected, Micky's face was contorted with almost a look of pain. He sat upright and turned his face away from Mike. Mike felt the cold hand of fear tickle his spine, a sinking feeling overcoming him.

"Is something wrong, Micky?" Mike asked, almost hesitantly.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer. Could he just ignore this, let it go away without acknowledging it? In the back of his mind, Mike already knew what was wrong, but his own denial drowned out that fact.

"I-," Micky's voice cracked and he lapsed into silence, gazing downwards towards the floor, "Fuck, Mike, I've fucked it all up."

Micky's voice hitched and Mike sat feeling helpless as he watched Micky begin to cry.

"What's wrong?" Mike repeated, feeling like a broken record.

He wanted to force his hand to reach out and comfort Micky, but his efforts were in vain. His hand wouldn't do as he wanted. It just sat in his lap, motionless.

"My test came back positive, that's what's wrong. What the hell else do you think it could be?" Micky snapped, his voice almost a snarl of anger.

Mike felt his heart speed up, felt himself physically shy away from Micky. Yet, even as he moved away in defense of himself, a part of him wanted to match Micky's anger. His test results were positive. He was HIV positive. Micky had AIDS. A brick wall of emotion hit Mike. He felt a heavy melancholy, boiling rage, and an almost overwhelming sense of futility. Then, similar to it's sudden explosion, all the emotions evaporated, a numbness replacing them.

"Well?" Micky prompted, his voice a clear challenge, "What are you going to say? Don't just sit there."

What was he going to say? Mike wasn't sure, at first. But the emotional void he found himself in made it easier to articulate his thoughts.

"Why didn't you tell me at the hospital?" Mike asked.

It was the first thing that came to his mind and it seemed the most suitable response, even though Mike felt as if it were a stupid question.

"I… couldn't then. I just couldn't. Not there," Micky replied, his voice hitching again as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"I understand," Mike said, finally getting his hand to reach out towards Micky.

He began to rub small circles into the other man's back, pulling him a little closer. Micky rested his head on Mike's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Mike, fuck I'm so sorry," Micky sobbed, suddenly grabbing onto Mike as if his life depended on it.

Mike held onto Micky, beginning to rock him back and forth slowly. It was something his Aunt Kate had done to him whenever Mike had come to her crying as a child. He had found it comforting and now he hoped that it would provide Micky with a similar feeling.

"You ain't got nothing to be sorry for," Mike informed him, "Shh, shh, listen to me now. You ain't got nothing to be sorry for, Micky, this ain't your fault."

"B-But it's not Peter's, it c-can't be P-," Micky couldn't manage to finish the sentence.

Mike could feel Micky crying, physically feel the other man shaking in his arms. For a moment Mike thought he'd almost join Micky. But he couldn't let himself cry right now. Micky needed him to be strong.

"It's no one's fault, babe. It ain't your's and it ain't Peter's," Mike assured him, briefly wondering if this was God's plan all along.

If God was the almighty being he truly was, why would he do this to innocent people? Was it because they were homosexuals? Was this really God's punishment? But Mike pushed those thoughts away, for now. That sort of thinking was not what Micky needed in this moment. Mike continued to hold Micky, continued to rock him. Everything felt so oddly distant and Mike found it troubling. When would all of this hit him? The thought of himself quickly dissipated from his mind. He could worry about himself later. Eventually Micky calmed down, sobs slowing to sniffles and sniffles slowing to silence. Then Micky pulled away from Mike, wiping tears from his cheeks despite the fact that they were already mostly dry.

"What am I supposed to do, Mike?" Micky asked.

He sounded so pained, so lost. It broke Mike's heart and he felt a stabbing pain in his chest at the realization that there was nothing he could do to help Micky, help the man he loved.

"We'll take it however we have to. One day at a time," Mike emphasised the we.

He didn't want Micky to think he'd be doing any of this on his own. None of them were going to abandon Micky. They hadn't abandoned Peter, after all. It wouldn't be any different this time.

"God," Micky threw his head back, so that it was hanging over the back of the couch, "How the hell am I supposed to tell Peter about this?"

"You don't," Mike was startled by his immediate response.

Micky raised his head, gaze trained on Michael and a frown creasing his brows.

"He has a right to know. It isn't as if I can keep this a secret forever," Micky pointed out.

"His mind's all messed up inside," Mike countered, "If he finds out he gave you AIDS, he ain't going to take it well. You can tell him later, much later, or something if ya like. But I don't think it's a good idea to tell 'im now."

Mike hoped that he was being sensitive enough. He wanted to be there for Micky but he also had to keep Peter in mind as well. If Micky told Peter about his diagnosis, Peter would surely blame himself. Maybe that knowledge would send him over the edge. It could send him into a very dark place and that was the last thing anyone wanted, especially right now. Mike hoped that Micky understood this. Micky rubbed a hand over his face.

"I don't know…," he sighed, "I think I'll lose my nerve if I don't tell him soon."

Mike took a hold of Micky's hand. He squeezed gently, trying to reassure Micky that everything would be alright in that single motion. He wasn't entirely sure that it was doing the trick.

"Think about it for a while," Mike suggested, "Talk to Davy when he comes home tomorrow. Or the day after that, depending on when he's gettin' in. There ain't any rush."

"Yeah," Micky reluctantly agreed, "You're right. I'll… talk to Davy when he gets home."

They sat there facing each other for a moment, Mike looking directly at Micky and Micky gazing down at his own hands. The silence that enveloped the pad made Mike antsy. It shouldn't be this quiet. There were two living, breathing human beings in this house. So why did it sound like only the dead lived here? Mike took a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

"Hey, Micky?" Mike called out after a moment.

Micky had closed his eyes, though Mike hadn't noticed until just now, and so he opened them to look at Mike.

"Mmm?"

"Let me take you up to bed," Mike suggested.

It was late. Micky was already falling asleep. And all Mike wanted to do was be alone for a moment. If Micky was fast asleep upstairs, Mike could be alone without feeling guilty.

"Alright," Micky nodded.

It felt weird for Micky to be so complacent, going along with what Mike suggested without a single joke or jib. Heaving a sigh, Mike stood up and awkwardly scooped Micky up into his arms. For a moment, Mike wondered if he really could carry Micky up the stairs without killing them both, but Mike's body wasn't really listening to his brain. He was already in autopilot, climbing the stairs carefully, taking them one at a time. The door to their bedroom was already opened so Mike just walked right on through and laid Micky down in his bed. Mike tucked Micky in, making sure that he was as comfortable as Mike could possibly make him. Then Mike decided he'd go back downstairs, so he went to turn around but Micky's arm shot out from beneath the blankets and grabbed onto Mike's wrist.

"Mike, please don't leave me," Micky whimpered.

Mike looked down at Micky's hand wrapped around his wrist. He sounded scared. He sounded worried. He sounded so small. And it broke Mike's heart, the ache in his chest making his stomach feel hollow. There was no way he could leave Micky now. Mike moved back to the bed.

"I won't leave you," Mike said, "I promise, Micky."

He promised. Of course he promised. He didn't want to leave Micky. But the numbness was fading. Feelings began to creep back into him, crawling along his skin. He watched Micky move over in his bed, making room for Mike to lay down, as if it were all happening on a movie screen. Or a dream. Mike automatically settled himself down next to Micky.

"I promise I won't leave you," Mike repeated.

Micky made only a noise in response, draping an arm over Mike's chest. Almost immediately, Micky drifted off to sleep. He began to softly snore. But Mike couldn't sleep. Even with his eyes shut, his mind was working at a mile a minute. Micky was going to die now. It was finalized. If Peter hadn't exposed Mike to HIV, Micky had most definitely. Which meant that sooner or later, Mike would be declared HIV positive. And he'd die. Would Davy get it too? Probably. Now Mike would have to watch Peter die away first, then watch Micky waste away too. The urge to cry overtook him. There was no air in the room. He couldn't breath but then he let out a sob. The tears began to stream down his cheeks. There was no sound. Mike was amazed at how silent he was.

A part of him hated Micky. Hated Peter. Hated himself. This was God's doing. Was it a punishment? Was He punishing Mike for giving into sin? Or was it ultimately a part of something bigger? Something less malicious? Or did it mean nothing at all? Mike wondered what it would be like if things had been different. If they had lived in a different time period. If they had been straight. But it didn't matter. Any sort of what-if questions that came to Mike's mind were meaningless to wonder about. Because it was happening. Had happened. And Mike would stay true to his word. He wouldn't leave Peter. He wouldn't leave Micky. He'd stay with them until he himself was dead and buried in the cold hard earth. Because he loved them. And whatever happened, at least he'd know that they died knowing Mike loved them.

Micky shifted in his sleep and Mike felt every movement. He could feel Micky's chest rising and falling as he inhaled and exhaled. For a brief moment, Mike shut his eyes again, hoping maybe this time he'd just fall asleep. Then he opened his eyes again, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Micky breathing. The curly haired drummer still had his arm draped over Mike's chest and Mike brought his hand up to brush against Micky's fingers. He traced them for a moment before taking a hold of Micky's hand and squeezing it gently. A small smile found its way onto Mike's face. Micky had always had soft hands. Certainly, out of all of them, Davy had the softest hands, but Mike would bet that Micky's hands would give Davy's a run for their money. Laying there in bed with Micky, holding his hand like this, made Mike feel the old twisting knife of guilt. The words filthy faggot floated in his head. A memory then came to him.

His father. His no good, drunk of a father. Mike hadn't left Texas until he was twenty-one. Why he stayed so long was beyond him, but that's how it went down. It happened when Mike was nineteen. The first year without his mother, Mike had lived with his father. But he'd been arrested for driving drunk. The sentence had been upped to two years due to the fact that Mike's father had driven straight into a house. So the next two years were spent living with his Aunt Kate, helping out on her farm with his cousins. At nineteen, Mike was dating a girl named Mary-Jane. She was a sweet girl who worked hard in school to get good grades. Mike had dated a girl named Sandie before Mary-Jane and he found himself much more attracted to Mary-Jane. The two of them could fool around with Mike being less of a disappointment, although usually Mike opted to please Mary-Jane rather than having it the other way around because he found it easier on himself. Less expectations. Mike liked Mary-Jane well enough and things between them would have been great, except for one thing. Mary-Jane had a brother named Paul. Paul was two years older than Mike. He was muscular and tan, wafting hair that could belong to an angel or Christ himself. When he smiled, Mike saw the sun.

One summer, the summer before Mike was about to move to a shitty apartment closer to the community college he was going to be attending come the fall, Aunt Kate hired Paul to help out on the farm. She'd made the passing comment that since Paul would be around all the time, Mike could spend more time with Mary-Jane. And yes, Mike had spent more time with Mary-Jane, but he didn't spend nearly as much time with her as he had with Paul. That summer, Mike had embarked on his first ever gay experience. Paul, it turned out, was just as interested in Mike as Mike was interested in him. They kept it secret, fooling around during Paul's breaks in the afternoon and at night. Mike would steal glances of Paul whenever he could, help Paul with his chores as much as he could, and even once convinced Paul to go out to dinner with him at the diner down the street. For two months this went on, a blissful and heaven like two months, until Mike's father was released from jail on probation. Only he didn't call to let Aunt Kate know, so Mike never knew. One night, Paul and Mike were fucking, with Mike receiving and Paul giving. They were in Mike's room on the ground floor, Paul had snuck in through the window, and they were both being very cautious, despite the fact that neither of them had had any reason to suspect that anyone would barge in. They had done this enough times to know no one would walk in on them. Plus, on this particular night, Aunt Kate and her children had gone out for the night. They wouldn't be back until the morning. Where they had gone, Mike couldn't exactly remember. It didn't matter though.

All that mattered was that Mike and Paul should not have had any interruptions. So it had been a shocking, horrifying surprise when Mike's father had walked into the room, slamming the door open. He had, at first, been quiet, watching as Mike and Paul scrambled to get their clothes on. Mike's heart had nearly leapt right out of his chest. A hole in the ground had nearly opened up and swallowed Michael whole, right then and there. That would have been better than what had really happened. Paul had slipped out of the window just as Mike's father had begun to scream at Mike.

"Filthy faggot! Filthy goddamn faggot! God'll strike you down, you filthy faggot!"

Mike hadn't thought about that night in so long. He had come so far since then. Mike remembered crying after his father had screamed at him, crying as his father had hit him. He remembered Aunt Kate standing up for him in the morning, claiming that Mike's father was drunk and wouldn't have been able to tell a car from a horse. Aunt Kate hadn't believed Mike's father. Why, Mike wasn't entirely sure, but he had taken it as a sign from God. Mike never saw Paul after that and a week later Mary-Jane ended up breaking it off with him. Mike had gone off to college that fall and a little less than two years later he ended up moving to California.

Micky's leg knocked into the side of Mike's leg, rousing Mike from his deep thoughts. Blinking, Mike turned his head to the side, so that he was no longer staring up at the ceiling, rather at Micky. The drummer looked peaceful, sleeping so deeply. Mike squeezed Micky hand again, having almost forgotten that their fingers were still intertwined. Micky made no movement. A deep sigh ran through Mike. How had things gotten so mixed up? So terrible yet so good? There was no way for Mike to answer his own questions. All Mike could do was hope he'd be able to stay around. That he'd be able to watch Micky waste away just like how he was watching Peter do the same. Hope that he'd be able to handle things when his own diagnosis came along. Maybe everything would be alright.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for reading everyone! This was a really fun chapter to write so I hope everyone likes it. Again, this fic is obviously a work of fic and I encourage anyone to do their own research on the 1980s AIDS epidemic and general research on HIV on their own. Although this fic did attempt accuracy, I am not trying to claim things depicted are accurate. I hope everyone out there has a good day! Will be publishing another chapter next week. Feel free to leave a review/favorite, every one is very much appreciated.


	14. Chapter 14

There hadn't been anything memorable about Micky's dream last night, so much so that when he awoke, Micky wondered if he had dreamt at all. Weak sunlight poured in from the window, the blinds only half shut. The rays made the room feel cozy, if not a little cold. Bringing a hand up to run through his hair, Micky glanced next to him. Mike, fully dressed and hair looking an absolute mess, was sprawled out next to him, snoring softly. He'd stayed the whole night. Micky felt a pang of love, or perhaps it was adoration, for the lanky guitarist. He really had stayed with him the whole night. Micky hadn't expected that. Memories of last night floated inside of his head and there was the gnawing feeling of guilt still inside of him. But for a moment, lying there next to Mike, Micky felt that he could pretend that it all was okay. Lying there, looking at Mike, Micky felt as if nothing could hurt him. He was an impenetrable fortress, protected by such a valiant knight. Everything could be okay, in this moment, if he just stayed there. If he never moved.

For a long while, probably around thirty minutes, Micky just looked between the ceiling and Mike's sleeping form. No thoughts ran through his head, he just laid there, soaking in this quiet moment. God knew what the rest of the day held, especially in regards to Davy's homecoming. Micky would have to tell Davy today, if he seemed alright enough. If Davy seemed too broken up about his grandfather's passing, Micky would just have to wait a day or so, but he hoped Davy was alright enough for Micky to tell him. Micky wanted to get this over with. He still had to figure out when to tell Peter. And his sister. And his family. The thought of telling Peter was unbearable. The thought of telling anyone was unbearable. And the worst part was that Micky almost felt the urge to scream this news at the top of his lungs, for everyone to hear. Why should it matter if he had it now? He was bound to get it anyways, one way or another. So no one should be surprised or upset. Why should he hide this? He could tell Peter today even. But… no, no that's not what Micky wanted. He had to go about this the right way, for his own sanity at the very least.

Micky sighed. There was no use in thinking such things anyways. His fingers absentmindedly twirled strands of his hair, his mind wandering to nothing in particular. Eventually, Mike stirred next to him. The Texan sat up, arms stretching high above his head as he yawned. Micky froze, waiting to see what Mike said or did. The guitarist rolled off the bed and began undressing himself. He didn't seem to notice that Micky was awake. Quietly rolling onto his side, Micky watched as Mike got dressed, pulling on a clean pair of jeans and a flannel that Peter had given him four birthdays ago. As Micky watched Mike pulling on the jeans, slipping his arms through the sleeves of the flannel, he realized something. Why was he so hung up about the future? He should be enjoying the time he had now, time he could spend with Peter. Mike. Davy. With all three of them. Who knew how much time he had left with them, especially Peter, so why should he spend that time hung up about anything at this point? He could worry about the future, or the lack thereof, later. When the first infection came. When he couldn't hide anything anymore. It didn't matter when he decided to worry about the future. All that mattered right now, in this moment, was enjoying the present. This thought overtook him with a feeling of calm, a feeling of power almost. He couldn't help but smile. He felt control of his life, which was a marked improvement over how he had felt about things last night.

"Nice ass," Micky smirked.

It was not the time to mope around, to feel sorry for himself. Now was the time to live. He'd tell Davy, his family, Peter. But he wouldn't let any of them think he'd be slowing down. Micky wouldn't let this change him like… like Peter. The thought sent a stab of guilt through Micky's chest. How could he have thought such a thing. But there it was. Already thought. He didn't want to end up like Peter. It was time to stop thinking that. Micky didn't need to think about that right now. It made him too uncomfortable.

"What?" Mike's frowned response cut through Micky's thoughts.

He had turned around to face Micky, hands absently buttoning up the flannel and his brows furrowed together. Micky sat up in bed, scooching towards the edge so that his feet were dangling an inch or so off the ground.

"I said," Micky tried to keep his face straight, although he was pretty sure that his efforts were in vain, all bad thoughts expelled from his mind. "Nice ass you got there, Nesmith."

A pink flush crept high into Mike's cheeks, betraying his cool exterior. He stumbled on the last button on the flannel. It struck Micky as really adorable.

"Why are you so shocked?" Micky chuckled, clambering off the bed so that he was standing.

He stretched his arms a little, wondering if maybe he'd gone too far with such a comment. Perhaps it was too soon for Mike. Maybe this was the last sort of thing Mike wanted to hear. But it didn't make any sense, did it. Micky had said crazier things in the past, even during Mike's heavily closeted period. Hadn't he? Micky couldn't entirely remember but anyways, Mike had never had a huge issue with those comments before. Maybe Mike wasn't out enough for Micky to talk about his ass this casually. Maybe it was because Micky was positive.

"I…," Micky observed how Mike clenched his jaw, how there was a flicker of some undetermined emotion behind Mike's eyes.

His shoulders slumped a little, fingers deftly buttoning up the last of the buttons, as if he had just given up on trying to figure out what he wanted to say or had forgotten something he was going to say. For a moment, the guitarist seemed tense but he quickly relaxed.

"Nothing, you're just a big goof," Mike shrugged halfheartedly, flashing Micky a smile.

The smile at least seemed genuine. Micky bounced out of bed and grabbed onto Mike's shoulders, pressing their lips together in a soft embrace. Even though he hadn't washed up from last night, Mike still smelled strongly of ivory soap and that awful aftershave he used. Micky couldn't quite remember what it was called, but a friend of Davy's had given it to Davy two Christmas's ago and Davy had never used it so Mike, being the one never to want anything to go to waste, 'borrowed' it once and hadn't stop using it since. In this brief moment though, Micky thought it was probably the best smelling aftershave he had ever smelt, despite that not really being true. They parted only a moment later, each making their way out of the bedroom, one after the other. Mike beelined for the bathroom while Micky started the coffee. The morning was spent chatting aimlessly while drinking coffee. At one point, Mike made toast for the both of them. Raspberry jelly for Micky and marmalade for Mike. Two pieces each. Micky's was slightly burnt, Mike doing this on purpose because Micky had a weird liking for burnt toast. It'd been a habit of his since childhood, something he had never quite grown out of. After toast and coffee, Mike cleaned up while Micky raced upstairs to get dressed into some proper clothes. He wouldn't want to go to the hospital dressed in PJs, even though technically his PJs right now were actually yesterday's clothes.

The drive to the hospital was, at this point, so familiar that Micky felt as if he could drive the route with his eyes closed. Maybe he could even bet some money on it. Around five dollars maybe. Maybe a little less. After all, he wasn't made out of money. Plus he could always crash. Micky was confident, but not entirely. Mike had the radio cranked up the whole time, both front windows rolled down so that Micky's curls whipped his face. It was beautiful out today. It almost made Micky sad because they couldn't check Peter out of the hospital right then and there. There were still two more days to wait. But he'd be out soon enough, Micky reminded himself. And soon enough was better than never. Micky noted that it was quiet at the hospital that morning. He and Mike walked to Peter's room, hand in hand, without passing by anyone else. When they got there, they found Peter asleep. For about half an hour, all Peter did was sleep. Mike and Micky talked about nothing in particular, with a little bit of the conversation trained on when they'd swing by the airport to pick Davy up. Then a nurse named Jolene came in, her face brightening up when she saw Mike and Micky. Although they had become friendly with several staff here at the hospital, there were only a few nurses that Micky could remember the names of. Jolene was one of them because Micky saw a lot of himself in her. Or at least that's what he told himself. She was a very nice older woman, with an kind bedside manner.

"Howdy, fellas," she grinned, coming in and checking Peter's chart.

"Morning, Jolene," Mike replied.

"How're the rounds?" Micky piped up.

"Alright," Jolene answered, "Though they'll be better when this one's out of here. All he does is talk my ear off about when he'll be let out."

She jabbed a painstakingly painted finger at Peter. Micky noted the dark shades of her fingernails, wondering if she had had them done professionally or had just done them herself. If she had done them herself, Micky wondered how she ever ended up being a nurse. There was a hidden talent in her. Then again, he added, his sister had the voice of an angel and yet she had decided to abandon a music career in favor of a career in medicine.

"We're as eager as he is to get him home," Mike said, his face crinkled into a smile.

"You're a saint, Jolene, for putting up with our little princess," Micky cooed.

"Flattery will get you nowhere in life," Jolene deadpanned before flashing the duo a quick smile as she disappeared into the hallway with a drifting goodbye.

A few minutes later, Peter stirred from his sleep. He sat up in bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the palms of his hands. Micky thought he looked particularly adorable this morning. He fought the urge to get up and kiss him. Instead, he plastered on a smile.

"Morning, sunshine," he said.

"What time is it?" Peter frowned.

"Almost 11:40," Mike answered without missing a beat.

How'd he know that so quickly, Micky wondered. He glanced around to see if there was a clock and realized that there was an alarm clock right there on the bedside table. Micky felt a little stupid.

"Well then," Peter smirked, eying Micky, "It's really good almost afternoon."

"If you're trying to make me feel small, you needn't try," Micky huffed in good humor.

Mike gave him a light hearted punch on the shoulder, causing Peter to giggle. Micky beamed. It was good to hear Peter laugh. He couldn't wait to hear Peter laugh in his own home. The pad seemed far too empty without Peter. It was worse without Davy. They needed to stick together, like a family. Micky's mind wandered until Mike nudged him in the ribs with his elbow.

"What?" Micky asked, not having heard anything Mike had been saying.

"What time was Davy's plane again?" Mike repeated.

"Oh," Micky searched his memory for the time, "Around one."

"So you can stay here for another hour," Peter cheered, grinning broadly.

"Yup," Micky nodded his agreement.

There was a brief moment of silence, Peter gazing down at the blankets of the hospital bed. Micky wondered if they were very comfortable. Peter had never complained but they could still be uncomfortable. Why would they be uncomfortable though? Then Peter spoke.

"Do you guys know how the funeral went?" he asked.

"Davy said it was good," Mike replied.

Mike had been the one to answer the phone yesterday afternoon, when Davy had called to uptake them on what was happening. Micky had felt a little cheated, since he hadn't had a chance to speak to Davy. But perhaps that was for the best. Micky wasn't sure if he could have kept it together over the phone.

"What'd he say?" Peter pressed.

"Well," Mike shifted in his seat, "He said it was good. It was a little sad at the actual funeral but when he and his cousins went back to his grandpa's house, they held a birthday party."

"A birthday party?" Micky frowned, having not heard this information before.

Why would they hold a birthday party after a funeral? That didn't make much sense, at least it didn't make much sense to Micky.

"Yup," Mike nodded, "It's what was dictated in his grandpa's will. He wanted them to celebrate his death as if it were a birthday party. Davy said it was pretty nice, a nice break."

Micky was torn between feeling uncomfortable about the subject of death and finding the whole idea funny. It was a different sort of funeral, nothing like what Micky had been expecting. Probably not was Davy had been expecting either. But it seemed like something Davy's grandpa probably would have done.

"I like that," Peter grinned and Micky saw the light in his eyes brighten up his face, "You guys could do that for me."

"Do what?" Mike frowned, seemingly confused as to what Peter was referring to.

Or maybe he did know but didn't want to know. Micky knew what Peter was referring to. And Micky didn't necessarily want to acknowledge it himself. He wanted to live in ignorance for now, with no thought to the future save a day or two. He couldn't blame Mike if he knew, but didn't want to know. Wish he didn't know. Like Micky did. The subject of death should be avoided after all.

"Have a party after my funeral," Peter replied without much hesitation, a broad smile dominating his face. "After you get back here to L.A. of course."

Micky could tell that the idea excited Peter. The way his eyes were sparkling, his whole body buzzing with energy. A stab of something, perhaps grief or longing for what was, spread its way through Micky's chest. Seeing Peter like this, excited as a puppy presented with its first snow, reminded Micky of how he got when he had a new song in his head. That was how Peter looked right now and Micky almost couldn't stand it. How was he ever supposed to tell Peter that he'd given Micky AIDS? How was he supposed to cope with watching Peter slowly drift away? Panic began to consume Micky but the rational voice in the back of his head forced him to take a deep breath. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Repeat. It wouldn't help to worry about the future, a future that Micky had no way to predict. It was better to stay in the moment. And at this very moment, Peter was excited and happy. So Micky might as well be the same, or at least some variation of it. Micky's thoughts returned back to the present just in time to for Peter to continue.

"You could have music and balloons, oh, and cake! An ice cream cake, because that's my favorite. And you could invite my sister and her family, I'd want someone to give the kids gifts, and you could invite Coco and Beth. Maybe some of our friends, too. Like Donny. Or Jacob and Jordan, they could come," the gaze in Peter's eyes had shifted slightly so his gaze looked starry-eyed and far off.

It reminded Micky of how Davy looked when he was really hung up on a chick or some guy. Why it reminded him of that, Micky wasn't entirely sure, but what did it matter in the end.

"Shit man, you'll have to write this all down sometime, but sure, we can throw you a big bash," Micky grinned.

Peter looked absolutely delighted. It gave Micky a warm feeling that spread throughout his body, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. But Micky was also aware of the concerned glare Mike was giving him. The topic of such a happy celebration for such a depressing occasion probably was not sitting well with Mike. It was barely sitting well with Micky.

"Yeah, we sure can," Mike agreed, despite the look and slightly pained tone of voice.

"Could we have a clown?" Peter smirked, one eyebrow arched.

Mike was in the process of replying with an affirmative when Micky realized what Peter was up to and quickly interrupted the guitarist. Peter hated clowns. So did Micky.

"Now that's where I try the line, young man," Micky huffed, his chest puffed out and his voice in a comically low tone, the lowest possible tone he could get his voice to manage. "After all, clowns are the number one party offenders in this here grand ole country of ours, the US of A."

This caused Peter to burst into a fit of laughter. Mike's brows furrowed together once more, this time his confusion caused by Micky's response. Of course, Mike wouldn't understand it. Micky was playing a character, a police office aptly named Officer Man. Officer Man was a no sense, American loving slave to the law and only ever came out to strut his stuff when Micky was quite high and horny. Obviously, Micky was neither high nor horny, but at this point, Micky would do anything for Peter. Even pull out Officer Man in a situation when he typically wouldn't.

"What's so funny?" Mike asked.

This made Peter laugh even harder and Micky's face flushed a deep red. He quickly had to explain to Mike the background of Officer Man. In a turn of events that Micky hadn't expected, Mike pretended to be quite upset that Micky had never shown him his Officer Man act, which only served to keep Peter in hysterics. The rest of the hour Mike and Micky spent at the hospital was filled with chatter. Micky was relieved to see Peter so full of energy. It might have been his imagination but Micky felt as if Peter seemed better than he had during his good weeks prior to this hospitalization. Maybe he was going to beat this thing after all. Eventually, Mike and Micky said goodbye to Peter, promising to come see him later that evening. Peter waved goodbye and then the duo drove to the airport. They waited for about half an hour until Davy's plane finally landed and the short singer appeared in the crowd with his carry-on luggage. Micky waved Davy down and then the three of them embraced, all at once. It felt good not to care if anyone gave them weird looks. It was too good to see Davy again to care about looks.

"It feels like it's been forever since we saw you last," Micky commented as Mike pulled away from the airport, heading back to the pad.

He was sat in the back of the car, while Davy was in the passenger's side and Mike in the driver's seat.

"It's only been two days, not even really that," Davy threw Micky a skeptical look from over his shoulder.

Micky leaned forward so that his face was right between Mike and Davy. The joy of seeing Davy again was still filling him with excitement. The fear and dread of having to tell Davy about his diagnosis was almost all but forgotten. For this car ride, at any rate.

"Well, I know that, but I just missed you so much," Micky said.

"Yeah, it's been weird not having you around," Mike agreed.

"I'm glad to be home," Davy grinned, turning Micky's head just slightly so that he could kiss him. "I missed you lot while I was gone. Far too much, I'm thinking. Anyways, I'll be relieved to see Peter."

Micky caught Mike giving him a weird glance in the rearview mirror. It caused his smile to falter slightly, but only slightly. Micky felt too good to let a weird look from Mike to bring him down. But he understand what the look was for and, unfortunatley, Micky also knew that it was time to start implementing

"Mike and I, we were thinking that he could stay at the hospital tonight, with Peter, while I help you get settled in back home," Micky did his best to speak clearly.

It felt too weird to ask Davy to stay home tonight. To prevent him from going to see Peter today. But Mike had convinced Micky that it was probably the best way. If Micky delivered the news to Davy before he went to see Peter, Davy might rat Micky out. And if Micky didn't tell Davy soon, he knew he'd lose the nerve to do so.

"With you gone, me and Micky have been talking his ear off. He's quite tired today and we both decided it might be best for him if he has a quiet night tonight," Mike added, almost as if to assure Davy that this plan was legitimate, "If you go see him later on, all he'll want to do is ask you about everything that happened."

Micky couldn't see Davy's face very well, so he wasn't entirely sure what the little man was thinking. There was a ball of anxiety slowly starting to grow inside of Micky's guts.

"Alright," Davy finally said, "You're probably right. But, first thing in the morning I'm going to be off to see him. And I'll willingly tell him every detail of my trip."

"He'll like that very much, I'm expecting," Mike nodded.

The rest of the drive back to the pad was done so in relative silence. By the time they got home, Micky was starving. He made lunch while Davy unpacked his carry-on bag and Mike took a shower. They ate in front of the TV, even though there wasn't anything really on save a couple of kids cartoons. Still, it was entertaining enough and, besides, anything to keep Micky's mind off of what was about to happen was a godsend. After they were all finished eating, Micky cleaned up the dishes, with a little bit of help from Davy. Then Mike suggested they go for a walk on the beach. Davy was overjoyed at this suggestion and so the three of them made their way down to the beach below their house. The sun, despite slowly beginning to sink below the horizon, shone brightly down upon the earth, making the sand fairly hot. No one was really on the beach at this hour, save a couple of families and a man playing fetch with his border collie. Micky decided to sit on the sand, right where the waves could lap at his feet. Meanwhile, Davy and Mike walked down the beach. It was nice to steal a moment for himself, and only himself. The setting sun looked so beautiful as it seemed to sink behind the vast ocean. Micky wished he had brought his camera with him so he could take a picture. He'd been compiling another photo album, a lot of the pictures being that of Mike and Davy, along with quite a few pictures of Peter in the hospital. It was really coming together but flipping through some of the pages made Micky's insides squirm. Why was he taking pictures of Peter like that?

The answer, of course, was relatively simple. To remember this time. Micky didn't want to forget a single thing that happened to him, and that included the things that happened to his partners. Because there would probably come a day when Micky wouldn't be able to ask one of them what happened on this or that day. He'd have to remember himself and having the photographic proof made things easier for him to remember. Perhaps Peter would beat AIDS after all. Maybe they'd get a miracle. And then Peter could flip through the albums Micky had compiled and see how far he had come. They could laugh about it a little, maybe. Micky buried his feet into the soft, wet sand and wriggled them, allowing for the sand to fall between his toes. Maybe they'd have to take a trip to Europe sometime soon. Wasn't that where everyone always wanted to go? It would be a chance for Micky, Mike, and Peter to meet some of Davy's family, if they started or ended in England. Peter would probably like France. Or they could go to Greece. Or maybe some tropical island. Micky wondered where Peter would like to travel. One more big adventure before the biggest adventure of his life. It could be nice, to go on a romantic getaway with his three lovers. It could be the honeymoon after their very unofficial marriage. Micky laid himself down on the sand and closed his eyes, letting his mind drum up images of this traveling daydream.

He must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing he knew, Davy was prodding him awake. It was dusk, the darkness quickly encompassing the world. Mike helped Micky to his feet, dusting the sand off his back for him. They went back up to the pad and Davy heated up some soup as Micky took a shower. It felt good to clean himself, taking extra time to shampoo his hair thoroughly. Dinner was eaten at the table, Mike and Davy recounting the beach walk Micky had sat out on. They had seen a lot of pelicans and possibly a dolphin, but the verdict on that sighting was still out there. Micky cleaned up the dishes again, this time on his own. Davy got into the shower and Mike left to go spend the night with Peter at the hospital. Micky knew this was it. Just as he had discussed with Mike. The house was just his and Davy's tonight. It was the perfect time for Micky to tell Davy. He put away the clean dishes, making sure that everything went back in its proper spot. He heard the bathroom door open and close, and watched Davy enter the downstairs bedroom out of the corner of his eye. Now would be the time. Micky had to do it now. Or else he'd lose his nerve. He couldn't chicken out of this. Taking a deep breath, Micky went over to the bedroom door. The wood felt like thin air as he knocked. Almost as if it weren't there at all.

"Yeah?" Davy's voice.

He had to do it. It had to be done. Davy could be at risk. Micky had to do it. Mike already knew. Davy had to know too. He had a right. It had to be done.

"Can I come in?" Micky asked, hearting pounding in his chest.

"Of course," Davy replied.

Micky opened the door, hoping he didn't look as nervous as he felt. He shut the door behind him. Why he did so was beyond him. The house was empty. It was just the two of them. But Micky felt safer with the door closed. Davy was sat on his bed, a blanket covering his legs. Micky sat down next to him, scooting all the way back so that he could rest his head against the wall that Davy's bed was pushed against. Davy was looking expectantly at Micky and the blood in his ears began to roar. Just like the ocean.

"I, uh, gotta tell you something, Davy," Micky began, seeing that Davy wasn't going to initiate this conversation.

"What is it?" Davy frowned.

Micky looked at Davy's small frame. He was beautiful. Wonderful. Smart. Talented. Amazing. He was everything that Micky was not. Micky's guts were twisting and tightening, leaving him with a sick feeling just like they had when Micky had told Mike yesterday. It would be worse when he told Peter. When he told Coco and his parents. But it had to be done. Who cared if he had AIDS? It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

"I…," Micky felt as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs, "I-my tests results came back positive."

There. There it was out. He'd said it. Maybe not really, but it was there. Davy could figure it out. The ocean was roaring in Micky's ears, the waves crashing against his ear canals. The bed was falling from beneath him, Micky himself was falling now. He couldn't look at Davy. He could only focus straight ahead. Then, "You have AIDS?"

"N-no, I, um, I'm just HIV positive. My count's 329," Micky said, wondering how exactly Davy wanted him to answer.

Had he answered correctly? Should Micky look at Davy? Was Davy upset? A thousand and one questions began to come into Micky's head right then and he could hardly answer all of them at once. That was impossible. Micky wanted to disappear. Had it been this bad for Peter? Had Peter felt like this when he'd told Micky? It made Micky want to cry. He didn't want anyone to feel this helpless and horrible.

"Fuck," Davy said.

He didn't sound angry or too upset. He just sounded… disappointed, almost. Disappointed and helpless. Micky decided to tough it out and look at Davy. He looked over at the smaller man to see him staring straight ahead. The look on his face mirrored how he had sounded.

"I… Mike was negative. But… he'll, you know, eventually, probably... I don't know, I..." Micky wasn't entirely sure how to continue.

He hadn't expected that sort of reaction from Davy. It was throwing him off. Then, something even more unexpected happened. Davy began to laugh. A deep rumble spilled from Davy's chest, his head tilting back just slightly. Then the laughter turned into a gut wrenching sob, before subsiding through a very deep and shaky breath.

"Are you okay?!" Micky asked, eyes wide with worry. This was all too unexpected.

"Am I okay?" Davy repeated, one of his perfect eyebrows arched, "Am I okay? I should be asking you that. Who gives a fuck if I'm okay."

"Davy, I… I'm fine, I care more if you're okay," Micky felt as if he was missing something about this conversation, "I-I'm sorry. I… thought you should know as soon as possible. I know, I know it must be tough, with your grandpa just dying and all-"

"Micky, don't be sorry for that," Davy interrupted him, "This was bound to happen sooner or later."

Micky felt out of his depth. He felt weird and a little bit uncomfortable and he was so very concerned about Davy. This was not at all how he had imagined this going. Davy started to laugh a little again and then he finally turned to face Micky.

"Do you wanna get high with me tonight?" he asked.

"What?" Micky frowned.

It was the only thing he could think to do. Had Davy been replaced by an alien? He was taking this a lot better than Micky had anticipated he would. Maybe he had been. Maybe this wasn't actually Davy Jones. It was some other person, a person that Micky didn't know. But that was ridiculous. Davy reached over and pulled opened the bedside table's top drawer. His hand rummaged around in there for a moment.

"Do you wanna get high with me? Mike's gone and I won't tattle on you," Davy assured him, pulling out two of the joints and handing them over to Micky.

Micky took them and watched as Davy returned the rest back to the drawer, emerging this time with a lighter. Davy waggled the lighter in front of Micky's face.

"What do you say?" Davy asked.

What the hell was this? Micky was relieved that Davy seemed to be taking this so well but he was worried at the same time. Perhaps the knowledge of Micky's diagnosis on top of the death of his grandfather had pushed Davy over the edge. Maybe he was having a mental breakdown as Micky watched.

"You aren't upset?" Micky frowned, wanting to know the truth before anything else happened.

He had to make sure that Davy was alright. This didn't seem like 'alright' behaviour. Davy placed a hand upon Micky's knee, squeezing gently.

"I'm upset, yeah, but not at you. I'm upset that this is happening. That Peter got infected, and now you, and probably Mike, too. That's what I'm upset about. I just… I really am fine, Micky. I just want to get high with you tonight, like we used to," Davy answered, "Forget it's all happening, just for a couple of minutes."

He offered Micky a small smile and Micky felt the worry begin to ebb away. Davy looked tired and scared. He looked upset. But mostly, he looked like Davy Jones. Micky believed now that Davy was alright. As alright that he was ever going to be, knowing that two of his lovers had AIDS. Or would have AIDS. Having just buried his grandfather. Davy wanted what Micky was trying to achieve. He wanted to be in the moment rather than in the future. Micky returned Davy's smile with a smile of his own. So, feeling only a little uneasy, Micky glanced at the rolled papers in his hands. He handed one back to Davy.

"I'm digging it, man," Micky said, saying the first thing that really came to his mind.

It didn't exactly make sense but relief spread across Davy's face nonetheless and he lit the two joints. For what seemed like ages, they just sat there on Davy's bed, smoking in silence. Then they began to talk. Davy talked about the funeral, about the party they held afterwards. Micky told Davy about Peter's hankering for a similar event after his own funeral. Davy talked about how messed up everything was and his yearning for things to go back to how they used to be. Micky talked about how he couldn't understand why any of this was happening. They talked well into the night, eventually just fooling around after conversation ceased to feel important. The comfort of words morphed into the comfort of touch. Both of them didn't fall asleep until well after two in the morning.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: My apologies for such a late posting! I got sick and was unable to do any editing. But here is finally chapter 14! But you all liked it and enjoyed it. Again, please feel free to research the 1980s AIDS epidemic on your own as this fic is a work of fiction and does not mean to make light of this very serious historical event. I, the author, have tried to be as accurate as I can but I am not a historian, did not live through the 80s, and am not a medical doctor. I am only a gay high school student with too much time and information on his hands. I urge and encourage any of you to look into other places of information such as a google search or if you want to read a book, Randy Shilts And the Band Played On. Any reviews / favorites are very much appreciated. :)


	15. Chapter 15

Tomorrow was the day. The day that Peter would be allowed home. He'd be discharged from the hospital, finally be able to sleep in his own bed. Peter was very excited, so excited that he couldn't really sleep, despite how hard he tried to get himself to. Plus, there was something bugging him. He needed to say goodbye to Sam. Peter couldn't possibly leave without talking to Sam one last time. All day, it had been bugging Peter. That morning, Peter had asked Dr. Cole if he could go see Sam. Dr. Cole had told Peter that Sam wasn't really in a state for visitors. That had really scared Peter. It only resolved his determination to go see his first and say goodbye. He had to go talk to Sam that night. Which was now. None of his lovers had stayed the night with him, something that Peter was grateful for. It made slipping out of his bed and out into the hall that much easier. The coast was clear and so Peter made his way down the hall. He took a left and began his search for room 215. A few minutes later, Peter found his holy grail. Room 215 looked exactly like Peter's room. Two beds, a little bedside table in between them. A window, a chair. The same pale green tiles on the floor. Peter saw that Sam had a roommate, although Peter didn't pay any real attention to the other man in the other bed. All he cared about was Sam.

Sam was in the bed closest to the door. He seemed to be asleep. As quietly as possible, Peter pulled the chair in the room over to Sam's bedside, so that Peter was sitting right next to him. For a moment, Peter just looked at his friend. There was an IV drip attached to Sam's arm and he was wheezing, as if he were having trouble breathing. All his hair was gone, his cheeks sunken. If it weren't for his freckles, Peter would have compared Sam to a skeleton. Peter wondered how he was doing. By the looks of it, his condition had worsened. By a lot. The thought of Sam dying crept into Peter's mind like an unwanted rodent and caused him to shiver. That could very well be him some time soon, somewhere down the road. But it made this goodbye even more important. Sam might die before Peter ever had another chance to talk to him. So Peter moved to wake Sam up but it seemed that fate was on his side. As soon as Peter moved to wake up his sleeping friend, Sam's eyes cracked open. Peter froze, waiting to see what would happen. Sam focused on him and, for a brief moment, looked confused. But the moment passed and a warm smile spread itself across Sam's face.

"Peter!" Sam exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.

His voice was raspy.

"Hi, Sam," Peter couldn't help but mirror Sam's smile.

It was infectious and almost a relief to see the man smile.

"Hey, look, they got me on some of the good stuff," Sam gestured towards his IV drip, "Morphine. For the pain. I'm high as a kite right now, my friend."

Sam giggled and shut his eyes for a moment as a cough shook his whole body.

"Are you in a lot of pain, Sam?" Peter asked.

Sam opened his eyes, looking directly as Peter. Peter noticed, for the first time, that Sam had very dark brown eyes. They almost looked black and Peter couldn't help but admit that brown eyes suited Sam very well. They gave him a very handsome, brooding aura. Sam's smile crinkled his face again.

"Not with the morphine, no," Sam replied, "But it's not looking good, Pete."

Peter felt the numbness begin to spread inside of him, wrapping around him like a snake, threatening to strangle him. Sam's words echoed inside of Peter's head, burrowing themselves inside of him, trying to penetrate his heart. Tears stung Peter's eyes.

"I'm sure you'll pull through," Peter said, but he felt as if he were lying.

The words tasted horribly sour in Peter's mouth. How could he say such a thing to Sam? But, as Peter thought it over in a fraction of a second, it was probably something Sam would say to him if their positions were reversed. It was what one should say, wasn't it?

"That's the spirit," Sam laughed, causing him to cough again. "The chemo's stopped working. This round might see KS winning."

"Has it spread?" Peter wondered.

"In my lungs now," Sam nodded, patting his chest gently, "Always fancied that if I got out, I might proposition you into starting an AIDS band. You play, I sing. Guess KS has other ideas for me."

Sam was smiling. Still smiling, even now. Had their positions been reversed, Peter doubted he'd be like Sam. There would be more tears, more anger. Or perhaps Peter had no idea how he'd be acting towards the end. Perhaps Sam had the right idea. Smile while you could.

"I'll teach you to play the guitar," Peter offered, "You'll play and I'll sing."

Sam looked up at Peter. Their eyes locked onto each other and Peter saw true sadness. In that moment, Peter understood that Sam had already accepted the fact that he'd probably be dead soon. The look in the man's eyes was a mixture of bitterness, acceptance, and deep melancholy. But Peter also saw traces of happiness, as if just seeing Peter was bringing a little light to Sam's darkness in this moment. It made Peter uncomfortable and horribly, horribly sad.

"We'll make a great duo," Sam nodded, shutting his eyes for a moment. "The government'll have to listen to us when we make it big. Our hit single will be Give Us Funding for Medicine You Pricks up on Capitol Hill."

"That's an awfully long title, Sam," Peter snorted, not being able to help himself.

The image of him and Sam performing such a song was dominating Peter's thoughts and, truthfully, it was such a simple image that it made Peter laugh. It wasn't as if he found it funny but rather it seemed such an outlandish idea that it almost seemed plausible. And somehow Peter found that funny.

"Well, you think of a more apt title and get back to me," Sam hit back.

He opened his eyes and smiled up at Peter. Another cough shook his body, his face contorting in pain.

"Is there anything the doctors are trying to do to help you?" Peter asked.

It felt unfair to leave Sam here like this, with no hope. Certainly there was something that someone could do. They couldn't let Sam die without trying. Sam's smile faltered as Peter spoke, his gaze growing distant, almost as if he were looking through Peter for a moment.

"Dr. Andrews has me scheduled for a surgery tomorrow. Try and see if they can remove one of my lungs or something. I can't really remember much of what he told me, but said that most of the KS is in one lung so they could possibly remove some of it, see if that helps," Sam answered, although he seemed to sound skeptical, "To me, it just sounds like they're gonna open me up and muck around in there, no real results for me. I'm just some toy to them."

He spat his words out nearing the end. It shook Peter to his core, wondering if the doctors were really doing all they could to help Sam. Why wasn't there something they could do for him?

"Maybe it'll help," Peter countered, wanting to give Sam even a little bit of hope.

A thin smile spread itself across Sam's face.

"Maybe, yeah, you never know until you try," Sam agreed, his eyes falling shut again.

There wasn't any conviction in his voice. Sam was lying and Peter knew it. His words were merely an act to soothe Peter.

"I'm sorry to be keeping you up, Sam," Peter said, realizing that his time with Sam was probably running thin.

Sam immediately opened his eyes, his head shaking from side to side.

"No, no, no. Don't be sorry, Peter, I'm so happy you came to see me," Sam insisted, "I've missed you so much. My roommate, Joe, isn't much of a talker and he certainly doesn't play me any music like you used to."

Despite himself, Peter smiled at that comment. He missed Sam so much. Micky, Mike, and Davy were all so lovely. Their support meant so much to Peter but they all lacked understanding. None of them could truly understand what Peter was going through. Yes, they could sympathize and support him, but none of them could provide Peter with the understanding that Sam could provide. And now Sam would probably be dead soon. It filled Peter with a despair that he hadn't felt in some time, a sudden and choking sort of despair that stung his eyes and burned in his chest.

"I've missed you, too, Sam," Peter managed to say.

He reached out and grabbed Sam's hand, intertwining their fingers. Sam coughed again. Peter felt him shake.

"You leaving here yet?" Sam asked.

"Tomorrow morning," Peter replied.

"Good," Sam smiled, giving Peter's hand a squeeze, "You'll have to come back and play for me. Before I go."

"I promise I will," Peter instantly said, without any sort of hesitation.

"Thanks, Peter," Sam grinned, his words slurring together a little.

His eyes shut yet again and for a moment, Peter thought he'd fallen asleep. Sam's grip on Peter's hand relaxed and his breathing grew more even. Peter stayed motionless, sitting there holding Sam's hand for what seemed like ages. It was probably only a few minutes, six tops. But then Sam opened his eyes only a bit and a look of pure joy and disbelief overtook his face.

"Henry?" Sam whispered.

The name threw Peter for a second. Who was Henry? But then Peter remembered Sam's stories. And Peter remembered how drugged up Sam actually was. Sam thought that Peter was his lover, Henry, the one who had left him in the middle of the night. For a minute, Peter considered correcting Sam. Telling him that no, he wasn't Henry, he was Peter, remember? But when he opened his mouth to say something, he immediately stopped. He shut his mouth, teeth grinding against one another for a moment. This man was on his last legs. And he looked so happy to see Peter, to see who he thought was Henry. Peter couldn't take that away from him. Could he?

"Hi, Sam," Peter said, wondering if that would break whatever delusion Sam was under.

He hoped with all his might that it wouldn't snap Sam out of it.

"I can't believe you're here," Sam said, clearly still under the impression that Peter was Henry. "I've wait so long for you to come back to me."

The tears rolled down Sam's cheeks, his breath hitching. He slipped his hand out of Peter's grasp and brought his hand up to brush against Peter's cheek. Peter couldn't help but start to cry himself. Seeing Sam cry, seeing him lying in this god damned bed with so little hope left, it was all too much for Peter. Sam wiped the wetness from Peter's cheeks as the tears rolled down them.

"I'm sorry I left you, Sam," Peter said, wondering what exactly was appropriate for him to say in this moment.

"I forgive you, Henry," Sam's voice was shaking, "I forgive you. I forgive you. I… I love you so much, I knew you'd come back to me. I knew you wouldn't leave me."

Sam was sobbing now, gasping to keep in enough air for him to breath as the sobs shook his body.

"Shh, don't cry, Sam, don't cry," Peter hushed, lifting Sam up slightly so that he could press the sick man against his chest in an awkward embrace.

Sam wrapped his arms around Peter's neck. Peter wondered if he should say anything else? What could he say? Already he felt weird about lying to Sam like this, but wasn't it better for Sam to believe that the man who he loved, who had hurt him so much, had finally come back to see him. One last time, before Sam passed away. Didn't Sam deserve that? Plus, Peter reasoned, Sam might believe this was all a dream. Or maybe he wouldn't it. Either way, Peter was already in too deep to pull out now. Sam would fall asleep soon enough and Peter could slip out of the room then.

"I'm glad you came to see me, before I died," Sam sobbed, his face buried in Peter's chest, "Henry, oh god, Henry, I'm so sorry."

Peter stroked the back of Sam's head.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Peter said to him, "I'm the asshole. I'm the one who left."

Sam pulled away suddenly and tilted his head upwards. Peter felt Sam's hands press Peter's head down a little, so that he was face to face with Sam. Then Sam kissed Peter, still under the belief that Peter was the lover that had abandoned him so long ago. Peter let himself be kissed. Their tears mingled together before Sam laid himself back down.

"I'm tired, Henry," Sam whimpered, "I'm so tired."

Peter felt nauseous with emotion. How much more of this could he take before he completely broke down?

"Go to sleep, Sam," Peter said, his hand stroking Sam's hand in a loving gesture.

"I'm scared to close my eyes," Sam admitted, his voice a high squeak, "I… don't want to wake up and find you were all a dream. I'm scared… that if I close my eyes, I might not wake up."

Peter leaned down and kissed Sam on the forehead.

"No matter what happens, you'll be alright. When you wake up tomorrow, you'll know that I'll always be with you, in your heart," Peter said, feeling so far out of his depth that he had no idea what to really say, "Just close your eyes, get some rest. You need it, babe."

Sam smiled, a smile filled with bitterness and joy.

"Goodbye, Henry," Sam mumbled.

"Goodbye, Sam," Peter replied.

He watched as Sam's eyes slid shut. His breathing became even and he seemed to be asleep, finally. Peter sat back in the chair, staring at his dying friend. Had he done the right thing? Peter wasn't sure but perhaps he had given Sam some sort of closure. Peter stood up, pushed the chair back against the wall so that it was out of the way, and stood looking down at Sam for one last moment. He looked so peaceful, like a baby when it was asleep. Peter's goodbyes had been said. He'd done what he had set out to do and Peter had the horribly gut twisting feeling that this would probably be the last time he'd see Sam Newly. With his legs feeling as if they were made out of lead and rubber all at the same time, Peter made his way out into the hall. As he walked back to his hospital room, Peter felt numb. The tears were still trickling down his cheeks but nothing was registering on an emotional level. He made it back to his room without being caught, surprisingly. Luck certainly was on Peter's side tonight.

As soon as he climbed into his bed, Peter pulled his knees up to his chest and began to sob. Sam was scared and alone and Peter had the horrible, awful image of Sam Newly dying exactly like that. Scared and alone, with no one to hold his hand. Everything was too much, too much. Peter felt as if he were drowning, despair and sadness gripping him with iron fists. He'd most likely never tell Mike, Micky, or Davy about tonight. He'd most likely never get to play Sam another song before he died. All of this had such a tone of finality that Peter couldn't stand it. That night, he cried himself to sleep. He dreamt of Sam.

Davy looked around the pad one more time, taking it all in. There was a banner hanging above the back door that read 'Welcome Home Peter!' in a variety of colorful letters. Bundles of three balloons were scattered around the pad, splashes of color brightening up the usually dreary paint that made up the walls of their home. On the kitchen table was a large variety of Chinese takeout and on the kitchen counter there was a beautiful chocolate cake that Beth had baked especially for this occasion. Davy couldn't help but grin from ear to ear. The idea for all of this had come upon him yesterday, seemingly out of the blue. 

"I think we should have a party for Peter when he comes home tomorrow," Davy had suggested to Micky and Mike, while they were talking an evening walk on the beach.

They both chorused an agreement, Micky suggesting that they could even invite over Coco and Beth, make it a real shindig. The three of them agreed that Peter would probably like that. Even though both of them agreed, saying that they thought it was a good idea, Mike still asked why, stating that he was just curious.

"Well, he keeps on talking about having a party after he dies and I think it's because he doesn't think he'll make it to his next birthday. I'm guessing that thought's really bumming him out so maybe, I'm thinking, if we throw him a little sort of party, it'll cheer him right up," Davy had explained, "Then, he'll maybe have more optimism. A good attitude might make a world of difference for him."

This seemed to make sense to both Mike and Micky. And thus, Davy had enlisted Coco and Beth to help him get everything together. Coco and Beth had picked up the banner, a custom order thanks to Micky's mom pulling some strings, along with the baking of the cake. Beth had insisted she bake the cake. It seemed very important to her and Davy knew that Peter would appreciate it. Davy had set up the balloons and Micky had picked up the Chinese food, driving Coco's car instead of their own so that Mike could go and pick up Peter. Now it was just a matter of time, a waiting game of sorts.

"Aw, shit, when do you think they're gonna get here?" whined Micky, "It's been forever!"

He was sitting upside down on the couch, his legs kicking lazily in the air. Davy shook his head at him, wondering why he always acted so much like a child. When would he grow up? But there was an endearing quality to the position that made Davy smile. Since Micky had told him about his diagnosis, there was a heavy sort of weight that Davy felt nearly all the time. It had been there when Peter had revealed his own news and it was here once again. But Micky didn't seem to let it bother him. In fact, Davy would have never guessed that anything was wrong if Micky hadn't told him. Micky seemed just like his usual self, almost more so than before.

"Micky, Mike's only been gone thirty minutes," Coco pointed out.

She was sat on the end of the lounge chair, Beth's head resting in her lap with the rest of her body sprawled out on what remained of the lounge chair.

"And Dr. Cole said he wanted to give Peter one last check up before he came home," Davy added as he wandered over to the kitchen table, just to count the number of plates one more time.

They might have missed one or something. But there were six plates, six cups, six forks, a bunch of napkins, two bottles of cola, and enough food to probably make them all sick if they ended up eating it all. Everything was there, just where it was supposed to be. Now all they needed was Peter and Mike.

"I wish they were here now! I'm starving," Micky grumbled, but Davy picked up on what he assumed Micky was doing.

Micky wanted Peter home as soon as possible, just as much as Davy did, but by focusing on something like food, Micky could perhaps pretend that this was all relatively normal. Nothing to worry about. Davy had noticed the he did that a lot. Focusing on mundane aspects or treating tasks that weren't normal as the usual procedure. It hadn't occurred to Davy to ask Micky why he did that and so Davy made the mental note to ask him about it later.

"Me, too," Beth sighed, "I hope they hurry up."

Micky grinned broadly and gestured vaguely in Coco and Beth's directions.

"See, that's why I like her, sis," Micky stated, "She's got her priorities straight."

Coco quirked an eyebrow, giving her brother a skeptical look.

"You like my girlfriend because she likes to eat?" Coco asked.

"C'mon on, babe, I'd agree that it's my best quality," Beth giggled.

Coco turned her skeptical look now towards Beth. The younger Dolenz smirked and suddenly began tickling Beth.

"Oh no, Coco, stop!" Beth gasped, her body writhing as she laughed.

"Fight! Fight!" Micky began to chant.

Davy couldn't help but laugh as Beth began to snort, she was laughing so hard. In her attempt to get away from Coco's tickling fingers, Beth fell down onto the floor with a loud smack. The laughter died down, Davy quickly making his way over to the young woman.

"You okay?" Coco asked as Davy offered Beth a helping hand.

"Yeah, thanks, Davy," Beth answered, taking Davy's hand and using him to help pull herself up off the ground.

"No problem," Davy grinned.

Just then, in the beat of silence, Davy thought he heard a car engine outside. Suddenly, Micky tumbled off the couch and leapt to his feet. Davy must have really heard a car engine if Micky was getting so excited.

"Oh, I think they're home!" Micky exclaimed.

"Get underneath the banner!" Beth instructed.

The four of them scrambled to get into position. Coco and Beth had their arms around each other, facing the front door as they both eagerly waited to see Mike and Peter walk into the pad. Davy and Micky were both bouncing on the balls of their feet, neither of them wanting to wait another minute. There was the distant sound of car doors shutting. Then the door to the pad swung open. Mike walked in first, a big dopey grin on his face. It was an odd sight to see Mike Nesmith with such a look but it warmed Davy's heart. Of course, this was all forgotten as soon as Peter entered the pad. As soon as Peter entered, all Davy could think of was how good he looked.

"Welcome home!" Micky, Davy, Coco, and Beth all cheered in unison.

They all more or less threw their arms up into the air in a celebratory greeting to the blonde bassist. Peter's eyes grew wide and a smile began to dominate his face. Micky ran over to Peter and nearly tackled him as the curly haired drummer threw his arms around Peter. Davy stood where he was, almost glued to the spot. He wasn't entirely sure why he suddenly felt the cold shivers of anxiety but it didn't matter. Peter pried himself away from Micky and came over to Davy, pulling him into a hug of their own. The moment Davy felt Peter against him, the anxiety melted away. Despite the fact that he smelt of antiseptic chemicals, Davy thought Peter smelled wonderful. And seeing him here, in his own home after so long, was such a sight to behold. Even if he was a little skinnier then Davy remembered. Even if he looked tired, dark circles under his eyes.

"This is so wonderful," Peter said as he pulled away from Davy, looking around the pad at all the balloons and up at the banner.

"Yeah we all pitched in," Mike nodded.

"But it was originally Davy's idea," Micky added.

"We all helped," Davy didn't exactly want any sort of credit for this.

"Well, thank you all so much," Peter said, his eyes misting slightly.

He went over and hugged both Coco and Beth, pulling the two women into a group hug. Davy felt such joy at seeing Peter so surprised and happy. He was home and his welcoming was one for the record books.

"You're welcome," Micky replied, his chest puffed out for some reason, "But can we eat now? I'm famished!"

"You and your stomach," Mike shook his head at Micky, "We'll eat when Peter's ready."

"I could eat," Peter piped up.

"Well then, you heard him, let's eat!" Beth said.

Davy and Coco made up the plates of food, handing each of them out as soon as they were relatively full, while Mike poured everyone some cola. They ate at the kitchen table, the setting sun casting a warm glow inside the pad. Conversation was a mix of 'how was your day' and half remembered jokes, but it was an organic and wholesome thing that Davy loved very much. For a moment, Davy thought if only his grandfather could see him now. What a big, strong man Davy had grown up to be. He had a little family all of his own. And it was perfect. After everyone was finished and nearly all of the food was gone, Coco insisted she could handle the dishes all on her own so the rest of them pulled out a board game. They played on the floor, in a circle around the game. It got relatively rowdy, with Micky breaking out into a mock fight with Coco at one point that made everyone laugh. After two rounds, the subject of Beth's cake came up and it was decided that it was time to eat dessert. The board game was promptly abandoned on the floor, left to be cleaned up at a later time, possibly even tomorrow morning. Mike cut the cake and everyone received a nice sized slice. Davy liked the cake very much. It was probably one of the best baked goods he'd had in awhile. The frosting was a creamy vanilla that paired well with the rich chocolate of the actual cake.

"Damn, Beth, this is fantastic!" Micky said around a mouthful of chocolate goodness.

"Thanks, it's my own recipe," Beth beamed.

"Lair," Coco hit back, "You got it off the back of a box."

"Well they didn't need to know that, now did they," Beth replied with a humorous glare.

"It's better than anything I could have made," Peter piped up, taking a sip of his milk.

Micky had made coffee for everyone but Peter had decided he'd rather have milk. Davy had gotten it for him when he'd gotten up to make himself some tea. He didn't really feel in the mood for coffee, so Davy had opted for some herbal tea instead.

"I'm sure that isn't true," Beth assured Peter.

"Oh, he's right," Micky stepped in, still talking with him mouth full. "Peter's an awful cook."

"Couldn't cook if his life depended on it," Davy agreed, enjoying the laughter behind Peter's eyes as they went along with the joke, despite the fact that it wasn't much of a joke.

It was a fact that Peter was a terrible cook. Most of the time, he simply ended up burning the food and almost setting the kitchen on fire. Beth's brows furrowed together and she glanced over at Coco, almost pleading for an explanation. This only caused Coco to start to giggle.

"It's okay, Beth, it's true," Peter grinned, "It's the one stereotype that I don't fulfill."

"There's a stereotype for that?" Mike asked.

"Yeah, you're all supposed to like cooking," Micky nodded his head.

"That's ridiculous, I don't believe it," Coco said.

Davy shook his head, making sure to swallow his food before he spoke.

"No, it's true," Davy insisted, "A lot of guys I know like cooking."

"Or they have a personal chef," Peter added.

"What guy has a personal chef?" Coco asked.

"The rich ones," Mike guessed.

"Mmm-hmm," Peter confirmed.

"When have you ever slept with a rich guy?" Davy asked.

"Lots of times," Peter shrugged, "They're always in the closet but they have nice houses."

The conversation began to drift away from this topic, moving onto plans that Coco and Beth had for their house. They were going to be refurbishing it and they wanted opinions on such subjects as wallpaper and furniture. Eventually, the cake was completely consumed, Micky having eaten at least three slices, and the night was growing late. Coco and Beth decided to leave a little after ten o'clock. They all hugged each other goodbye and the four Monkees followed the two women to the door, waving at them as they exited the pad. Mike washed up the last of the dishes as Davy picked up the board game. Peter went into the bathroom and took a shower. It had been such a wonderful evening and Davy couldn't wipe the smile off his face.

"It's good to see him home, isn't it?" Davy asked Micky.

Micky was over in the band nook, the corner of the pad where they used to practice every evening. These days, it was an often neglected part of their house. Micky was messing around with his drums, tightening a snare or something, Davy wasn't entirely sure. Micky looked up and grinned.

"Yeah, it is," Micky agreed, "I think he's very glad to be home."

"I'm glad you thought of the little party idea, Davy," Mike added, coming up from behind Davy and wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

"It wasn't really anything," Davy said, not wanting that sort of recognition. "We all helped, that's the only thing that really matters."

"Aw, I think Davy's embarrassed!" Micky cooed.

"I am not," Davy protested.

"Yeah, Mick, I'll be damned. I think yer right," Mike chuckled, nudging Davy in the ribs with his elbow.

Davy's smile did not falter but he still tried to pull away from Mike. Mike wouldn't let him go though. He just kept his arm snugly around Davy's shoulder.

"I'm not embarrassed," Davy continued to insist.

"Then why're you trying to run away?" Micky giggled, getting up from behind his drum set and walking over to Mike and Davy.

"I am not!" said Davy.

"Yes, you are!" said Mike.

Micky then suddenly scooped Davy up, hauling him onto his shoulder. Davy involuntarily shrieked, which sent both Mike and Micky into hysterics.

"Oh, don't worry, princess, nothing to be embarrassed about!" Micky chuckled.

Davy just laughed. He felt complete, wonderful, and happy. The door to the bathroom opened and Peter stepped out, dressed in his pajamas. Davy waved at him and Peter waved back.

"What's going on?" he asked with a smile.

"Davy's embarrassed!" Micky exclaimed.

"Doesn't want to take credit for your homecoming celebration," Mike added.

"Oh, Davy," Peter's smile widened, "That's cute."

"Cute?!" Davy frowned.

"Well, you are a little man being held by a big, strong man," Micky pointed out, bouncing Davy up and down a little.

"Sounds like a fun night," Peter smirked.

All four of them burst into laughter. Micky plopped Davy back down onto his feet and the four of them sat down to absently watch some TV. There was nothing good on so, eventually, they decided to just go up to bed. The goodnights were exchanged as per usual, something that filled Davy with warmth. The tradition of goodnights hadn't been the same for so long. It felt good to say goodnight to all three of his lovers in their own home. Mike and Micky went upstairs to their bedroom while Davy and Peter headed into theirs.

"I'm so glad to be home," Peter yawned as he clambered into his bed.

"I bet you are," Davy agreed, turning off the light before beelining for his own bed.

He didn't get far though.

"Davy?"

Davy paused.

"Yes, Peter?"

"Would you mind sleeping with me in my bed tonight?" Peter asked.

The tone of his voice reminded Davy of dark stormy nights, when thunder would shake the pad and rain would pelt violently against the windowpanes. Peter's voice would cry out in a similarly fearful whimper, "Would you mind sleeping with me tonight, Davy?". Because there were many things Peter Tork wasn't frightened of and there were many thing Peter Tork was frightened of. Thunderstorms were things that caused Peter to unravel. But tonight, in this moment, the night sky outside was clear. The moon was shining brightly, not a raindrop to be seen. There probably wasn't even a single cloud in the sky and the wind was nonexistent. This time, it wasn't a silly little storm that was causing Peter to unravel. He couldn't have said no to Peter back then and he couldn't say no to Peter now.

"Of course I will," Davy said as he turned around and laid down next to Peter, who held up the covers so Davy could settle himself down comfortably next to Peter without having to jostle the blankets around.

"Thank you," Peter said, wrapping his arms around Davy so that Davy could comfortably curl up next to him.

It was very warm, lying down so close to Peter underneath the covers. Davy almost wished there was a thunderstorm raging outside. It would, in his opinion, make this situation a lot more cozy.

"I've missed you so much," Peter whispered, hand absently rubbing up and down Davy's back.

His breath smelt minty and Davy placed a quick kiss onto Peter's lips. Thunderstorms and kisses. But there wasn't a thunderstorm to be seen.

"You've only missed me?" he smirked.

"Don't be ridiculous," Peter replied, "I'm just trying to flatter you."

"Cheeky," Davy rested his head against Peter's chest, the blonde holding tightly onto him.

Davy listened to Peter breathing, feeling his chest rise and fall. Eventually, Peter drifted off to sleep. Davy had to admit that it felt slightly odd, to be keeping such a huge secret from Peter. Micky had decided that he'd tell Peter about his diagnosis after their ring ceremony. It felt odd not to tell Peter Micky's secret, but Davy had sworn himself to silence. At any rate, it wasn't his place to tell Peter. Exhaustion was beginning to pull Davy down into its warm depths, the siren of sleep calling to him, but a part of Davy didn't want to fall asleep just yet. He wanted to enjoy this quiet moment a little longer. If he'd had any sort real choice in the matter, he'd actually want to stay in this quiet little moment forever and ever. But he didn't have any real choice and sleep eventually overcame Davy, dragging him down into the depths of dreams.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this latest installment of this fic. As per usual, please remember that I am not a historian or a medical doctor, I do not now a lot about medicine, and although I did try to keep this fic as real as I could, it is fiction and my research might not have been extensive enough to be completely accurate. I encourage anyone interested in the AIDS epidemic to check out books such as And the Band Played on by Randy Shilts or do a google search. There's only two more chapters after this guys so I hope you all are enjoying it. We're nearly at the end. This project has been so much fun for me and I'll be sad to post the last chapter. But, we got two more to go, so stay tuned for more soon! As always, all reviews and favorites are very much appreciated.


	16. Chapter 16

It'd been two days since Peter had been on any sort of medication and, finally, Dr. Cole had put him back on AZT, along with a different antiretroviral medication, the name of which escaped Peter at the moment. Peter wasn't sure if this was a good sign or a bad sign. In fact, he wasn't sure if Dr. Cole even knew the answer to that sort of question. It seemed like they both were stumbling into unknown territory, the blind leading the blind.

"This is a bit risky, so please monitor how you feel over the next few days. Call me if you have any concerns and if any side effects begin to feel unusual, stop taking both medications. If that happens, we'll get you back in here and figure something out," Dr. Cole had said to Peter.

It seemed as if Dr. Cole was groping in the dark and that made Peter understandably uncomfortable. But Micky had assured Peter this would work out alright.

"Coco told me a lot of doctors have been trying a combination of drugs, to see if that helps, since AZT has had so-so effects for a lot of men," Micky had said to him in passing, the day before Peter went onto the drugs.

So, Peter was to just be a guinea pig for the advancement of medicine? It rankled him a little but not by very much. He was going to die anyways, one way or another, and he might as well test out drugs for future knowledge. Maybe his three lovers would see the cure to AIDS. Peter doubted that he would, but there was hope that Micky, Davy, and Mike would. None of them had even been diagnosed yet so it was a very possible notion. The first few days on the new medication combination, Peter had felt fine. He went swimming in the ocean, went walking on the beach, ran errands with Davy, and a whole variety of other activities. He had felt good, even though he had taken a nap in the afternoon, always after lunch. There was a lot to look forward to as well. His partners had revealed to him that they'd be going on a trip up to the mountains, to stay at John Denver's cabin. Mike apparently had asked John if they could stay up there for four days, just to get away from things for a little bit. Peter had hardly felt any side effects at all and the idea of taking a little bit of a break from L.A was very appealing. All of it lulled him into a sense of false security, so when Peter woke up the day of the trip feeling godawful, he didn't understand why.

Getting out of bed, a wave of nausea overcame Peter and he felt a little light-headed. Screwing his eyes shut tightly, Peter stood absolutely still, waiting for it all to pass. The dizziness ebbed away but the nausea continued to linger. Peter ground his teeth together and decided that the nausea probably wouldn't be going away anytime soon, so he might as well get his day started. Opening his eyes again, Peter noted that Davy wasn't in the room. His bed was made, covers neatly tucked under the mattress to make it look like a hotel maid had made the bed. Probably, Peter reckoned, Davy was helping the others pack the car up. God. The idea of being in a moving vehicle made the urge to vomit worsen. No. No, thought Peter, he wouldn't let this ruin the day. Ruin the trip. Peter forced himself to move, despite the fact that every part of his body was telling him to just go back to bed. Honestly though, Peter had already slept in. He couldn't let himself ruin today. Micky, Mike, and Davy were all looking forward to the trip. Peter grabbed the first shirt his hand touched and pulled it on, having opted to sleep without a shirt on last night. Then he yanked off his pajama pants, sliding on a clean pair of jeans in their place. There, he'd done it. He was dressed. Bathroom time. Peter shuffled out of the bedroom. Distantly he was aware of Micky exiting the pad, with Mike hot on his heels. Davy was in the kitchen, doing something but Peter didn't pay much attention to what it was the smaller man was actually doing. All he could really focus on was the movement of his feet. Anything else made the nausea worse.

He shuffled alongside the wall, using it almost to hold him up. The same things kept tumbling inside of his head. I'm not going to throw up. I don't feel sick. I feel fine. Over and over again, these phrases repeated, like a mantra. The bathroom was empty, of course it was considering the other three people living in this house were busy at the moment, allowing Peter to slip inside easily. Yawning a little, Peter picked up his toothbrush and turned on the faucet. Wetting his toothbrush beforehand, Peter applied some minty fresh toothpaste. Everything was fine. He was fine. In fact, he felt great! Didn't he feel great? Peter began to brush his teeth. But he didn't get far. His back molars were just getting a good cleaning when an acidic burn began to creep up his throat. Quickly yanking the toothbrush away from his mouth, and knowing he didn't have any time to try to make it to the toilet, Peter bent over the sink and threw up. The bile burned his throat and made his eyes water. It splashed all over the sink's counter. Peter felt a wave of embarrassment but there was a brief pause. Peter knew more was coming but he had to make it to the toilet instead. Both hands clasped firmly over his mouth, Peter shifted himself so that he was closer to the toilet but just then someone popped into the doorframe of the bathroom.

"Peter, you alright?" Davy's voice asked.

Clearly, he hadn't had a chance to take in the scene but Peter hadn't expected Davy to appear. The sudden entrance of his lover had startled Peter, causing his hands to fall away from his mouth and suddenly a second wave of vile vomit flooded into his mouth and he knelt down, body shaking a little. There was a mess on his shirt front, a mess on the floor, a mess on the toilet seat. Some of it had made it into the actual toilet though, so that was at least something.

"Shit," Peter distantly heard Davy swear.

Looking at the mess in front of him, a mess he had made himself, and feeling the gross liquid soaking the front of his T-shirt, Peter felt horrible. He felt disgusting. There was a burning in his throat, an absolutely nightmare sort of taste in his mouth, and he felt exhausted. There had only been a few times Peter had ever felt like this prior to his diagnosis and that had only been when he'd been absolutely shitfaced. High and drunk on god only knew, coming home at four in the morning, only to end up in a similar situation. But instead of being blackout drunk, Peter was fully aware of everything. He wouldn't have the luxury of forgetting this in the morning. It made him feel so small and helpless and Peter couldn't help but begin to cry. At first it was just a little bit of a teary-eyed sort of sniffling but it devolved into gut wrenching sobs. He probably looked a right mess and that seemed to only make things worse, the image of him crying while surrounded by sick. It was pathetic.

"Hey, Pete, it's okay," Micky's voice suddenly said, arms wrapped around Peter, "I'm here, we're all here, it's okay."

Micky was rubbing Peter's arm and Peter wanted to pull himself away from Micky. Don't touch me, he wanted to say. How could Micky be so close to him, with all this mess around? But exhaustion was a strong force and Peter let himself be held because all he wanted to do was crawl right back into bed.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Peter found himself saying to Micky.

He hadn't been aware he was even speaking until just that moment.

"It's alright, babe," Micky assured him, "It's nothing to worry about or be sorry for, okay."

Peter shook his head but he couldn't manage to say anything. The feeling of guilt was creeping back up onto him, making his guts twist as if maybe he'd have to vomit again. That was the last thing he wanted to do, of course. Why did this have to happen this morning? The day of their trip. It was unfair, not just to Peter, but especially his three lovers. It wasn't fair at all.

"I'm sorry," Peter said again. It honestly was one of the only things he could think to say.

"Shh, it's okay," Micky said again, "Here, come on, let's get up. Get you cleaned up, come on. Up we go."

As Micky spoke, he lifted Peter into a standing position. A part of Peter vaguely wondered what he was supposed to do in this sort of situation but he didn't put up any sort of protest and just sort of let Micky half-lead, half-carry him back to his bedroom. While Micky was helping Peter through the door, he spied Mike and Davy slipping into the bathroom. Before Peter could say anything, Micky walked him into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

"Alright, get your clothes off, mister," Micky instructed, a surprisingly cheerful tone to his voice.

What was he so happy about? Peter wanted to glower or maybe go to bed. Honestly he was feeling awful and tired and, if he were being completely honest, a bit cranky. Micky seemed oblivious to this though. Instead, he was just rummaging around in Peter's drawers, looking for a new set of clothes, probably.

"You gotta go tell Mike and Davy I can clean up my own mess, I just need a minute," Peter grumbled, pulling off his t-shirt carefully so as to not get any vomit on him by accident.

"Nonsense," Micky shook his head, throwing a pair of pajamas onto Peter's bed as Peter slid off his jeans, "Mike and Davy can handle it."

Peter felt a hot flush of red sprinkle his cheeks. He wasn't a child and why was Micky throwing him PJs? They had a car ride to start. All Peter needed was an hour, maybe two. A quick nap and then maybe he'd feel a little better. They could still go on their trip.

"Plus, when's the next time we can boss them around to do any work around here?" Micky added with a wink.

Standing there in his underwear, nearly naked, Peter couldn't help but feel foolish. As if he were an absolute grubby child. Only a few minutes ago, he'd been covered in his own sick and he still felt awful, maybe not as awful as he had felt early, but still awful. He should have anticipated this. It wasn't as if he hadn't felt this way before. The medicine had always made Peter feel awful. It had always made Peter throw up, now and again. Nothing new yet it felt as if this time round, Peter wouldn't be able to live through it. He didn't want to keep doing this, not anymore. Micky's hands suddenly placing themselves on Peter's hips startled Peter out of his thoughts.

"Hey," Micky said, "Are you alright?"

His face was very close to Peter's face, close enough for Peter to feel Micky's breath on the tip of his nose. The concern Peter saw in his eyes nearly frightened Peter. Here was a man who truly, deeply cared for him. That scared Peter, scared him very much.

"I'm sorry, Micky," Peter said, his eyes misting a little.

"What for?" Micky frowned.

"I don't think I'll be able to manage a car ride today," Peter mumbled, eyes avoiding Micky's.

It felt like a defeat somehow. As if he were allowing It to rob him of a moment of his life that he'd most likely never get back. Here he was, disappointing his friends when he didn't want to. But how could he help it? What could he do? The last thing he wanted was to be sick during a car ride. How awful would that be?

"Don't be sorry about that," Micky replied almost immediately, placing a kiss onto Peter's cheek, "We'll go this weekend. That'll give you two days to rest up. And if you don't feel good enough this weekend, we'll go whenever you feel ready."

Micky sounded so genuine. As if he really meant what he said. For a brief moment, Peter wondered if Micky did mean it. Perhaps his partners weren't bothered by Peter inconveniencing them like this. An odd feeling began to creep up Peter's legs, spilling into his gut. No, Micky probably did mean what he said. That much, Peter knew for sure. So why did he feel so awful? So hopeless?

"Peter? You gonna get dressed?" Micky's voice almost didn't register with Peter.

Peter blinked and looked down at himself. He was still just in his underwear. Feeling another hot sprinkle of blush appear on his cheeks, Peter pulled on the pajama shirt. His thoughts were still preoccupied with why he felt so guilty about not being able to make the trip up to John's cabin. It wasn't until Peter was slipping his legs into the pajama pants that he came to a sort of realization. The medicine had won today. It had robbed Peter of what was supposed to be a wonderful, exciting day filled with adventure. Certainly, yes, Peter felt bad about putting his friends into a position like this, but it was the fact that Peter felt so horrible and awful that he couldn't handle a simple car ride that really bothered him. Since his release from the hospital, Peter had felt so good. He'd felt so good, he almost forgot that he was dying. Peter felt his bottom lip tremble and he flopped down onto the bed, head resting on his hands as tears began to slowly trickle down his cheeks.

"Shit, Peter, what's wrong?" Micky's startled question reminded Peter that he was still in the room.

The bassist felt Micky rush to his side, settling himself right next to Peter. God, it was like Peter couldn't have space to breath! Peter shifted himself away from Micky. Couldn't he be alone right now? Why did they always have to hover over him, like he was going to die at any given moment?

"Everything's wrong, Micky," Peter snapped.

He hadn't meant to sound so harsh and he immediately regretted his tone of voice as soon as he heard himself speak. Micky stiffened next to him, obviously picking up the edge to Peter's voice. How could he miss it?

"Look, the trip isn't all that important-," Micky began, trying to soothe Peter's frustrations but this only added to them.

"It's not about the fucking car ride," Peter interrupted him, then backpedaled a little, "Well, not really. I… shit, it's just that I forgot, Mick, I forgot how horribly awful this shit makes me feel. When I wasn't on any medicines, I felt so good. It was such a relief and then to be here, to feel too awful to not be able to ride in a fucking car, it's such a drastic change. Something so simple, and I… can't fucking do it. Because I feel terrible."

A hollow, empty feeling was beginning to spread throughout Peter's body and he felt as if at any moment he'd just topple backwards, fast asleep. He was suddenly so exhausted, so tired. It felt as if he hadn't slept in months. Micky was still silent, still stiff sitting next to him.

"I just don't know how much more I can take of this," Peter sighed, "A friend from the hospital, Mark, he told me about how some guys have just been letting things run its course, without any medication. I didn't really see the appeal until now, I guess. I'm just tired. Tired physically and tired of feeling awful."

Peter felt Micky's hand brush against his, almost as if Micky were trying to reassure himself that Peter was really still there. It occurred to Peter that maybe Micky didn't want to hear this sort of stuff. Maybe this was too much for him. It was too much even for Peter. But if Peter had to face this, then so should Micky. If Davy and Mike were here, he'd subject them to this too.

"Peter, I… know it's hard, but you can't stop taking the AZT and stuff," Micky began tentatively, as if he wasn't entirely sure of how to go about saying what he wanted to say.

Micky wasn't to blame though. Had their positions been reversed, Peter doubted that he'd be able to know exactly how to go about saying what he wanted to say to Micky. All Micky needed was a moment and Peter allowed him that much.

"I wish you didn't have to suffer. I wish there was more I could do to help you," Micky continued, "And I don't want to force you to do something that you don't want to do. But… But I don't know if I could accept a decision that would involve stopping the medication."

There were too many emotions whirling around inside of Peter for him to know exactly how he felt about Micky's words. The blond laid down onto the bed, resting his hands on his chest. Heaving a sigh, Peter closed his eyes. He felt the bedsprings move as Micky laid down next to him. This conversation was too taxing. Why had Peter brought any of this up?

"I know, Micky, I know," Peter murmured after a minute or so of silence. "I just wish it didn't make me feel so goddamn awful all the goddamn time."

He felt as if he could fall asleep at any moment. But then, Peter got a pleasant surprise. Micky was suddenly pressing his lips against Peter's. Peter kissed Micky back, an arm pulling the curly-haired drummer closer to him. Micky's fingers brushed a loose strand of Peter's hair behind his ear.

"I'm sorry it makes you feel awful. But, look, me, Mike, and Davy, well... we're here for you. Boss us around all you want, if that'll help you feel less awful," Micky said, his words brushing hot air against Peter's face, "But… don't stop taking it. Please. I… I know it's selfish but I…"

Micky trailed off, as if he were about to start to cry. Peter felt a pang of guilt. Here he was, making his lover cry. How could he be so cruel? Yet there was another part of him that wanted Micky to man up, almost wanted to see Micky cry. If Peter wanted to stop taking his medicine, who should have the right to stop him? It was his life, after all. Yes, it was his life, but that didn't give him any right to hurt those he loved, did it? Peter brushed the tips of his fingers against Micky's back, as if reassuring himself that Micky was indeed there. That, at least in this moment, there was nothing separating them. And there was no reason to put Micky through any more pain than he was already being put through.

"It's alright," Peter said to him after a moment.

It was alright. At least, Peter thought it was. It had to be alright.

"I was just… talking, that's all. I wouldn't dare stop taking my medicine. I couldn't do that to you guys," Peter continued.

No, Peter thought to himself, no he most certainly could not do that to the men he loved. He pressed Micky closer to him, wondering how it had all ended up like this. And when it would all end. God, when had he become such a sad sap? Despite himself, Peter smiled.

"I love you so much, Micky," he mumbled.

Micky lifted his head up slightly, presumably to give Peter a look despite the fact that Peter was still gazing up at the ceiling.

"I love you, too, Peter," Micky replied after a moment.

Neither one spoke after that. They laid in Peter's bed for about an hour, perhaps even an hour and a half. Peter thought that it felt good to just lay there with Micky, without having to put in much energy into conversation or movement. Eventually, Peter couldn't help but fall asleep. It had just become too much of a struggle to keep his eyes open and nearly as soon as he closed them, he was pulled into the world of unconscious.

With a day to spare, Micky had decided that he'd take the opportunity to go out and purchase a new photo album. The one he was currently working on was nearly complete and it was about time Micky got himself a new one to fill. But Davy had taken their car out for god only knew what and Micky didn't feel like hoofing it to the store. So he decided that the logical, and only, conclusion was to bum a ride from Coco. Except that Coco was busy that afternoon. Yet luck seemed to be on Micky's side because it just so happened that Coco's lover, Beth, was free and had a car of her own. She offered to drive Micky to and from the store and, thus, Micky found himself combing the aisles of the local craft store looking for just the right photo album with Beth. They hadn't really said much to one another on the ride over and it was throwing Micky's game off.

"So, how're you enjoying life with my sister?" Micky asked, hoping that was a casual enough topic.

He spotted a particularly interesting green photo album.

"I'm loving it," Beth replied. "Coco's really great. Such a sweet woman. I love her to death, even if she can be a bit of a nag."

The way the photo album felt in Micky's hand was too… off. It felt a little too heavy and the cover felt like leather rather than the usually weird cardboard plastic stuff most of his albums back at home had. It just wasn't right. Micky put it back on the shelf.

"My sister, a nag?" Micky arched an eyebrow, throwing Beth a quick look.

Beth didn't seem up to the challenge and knew immediately that Micky wasn't surprised to hear such criticism. It made Micky laugh, the rumble in his chest spilling out into a warm chuckle.

"Well, it's not that she's a nag," Micky continued, picking up another photo album that caught his eye. "It's just that she likes order and control. And when things don't go as she planned them to, she starts to panic a little. Something she inherited from our father, unfortunately."

Again, the album that Micky had picked up wasn't what he was looking for, even though it had held promise, so he put it back on the shelf.

"So what did you inherit from your father?" Beth asked.

"Male-pattern baldness, probably," Micky shrugged, patting his hair lovingly. "So I'm living this up while I can."

Beth laughed at that one. Her laugh was a high pitched snort and it filled Micky with a warm feeling. It was a very lovely laugh, in his opinion. Not that he needed to approve of Beth's laugh or anything. That would be ridiculous, and a bit creepy. A slightly off-colored blue photo album stuck out against most of the other ones surrounding it. Micky plucked it off the shelf, turning it over in his hands.

"Well you can just pop on a hat or something, when you lose all your hair," Beth grinned, peering over Micky's shoulder. "Oh, I like that one."

It was quite a nice photo album, Micky thought as he thumbed the back of the album. Maybe this one was worth getting.

"Yeah it's nice," Micky agreed, "I think I'll get it."

"Good choice, really splendid, sir," Beth declared, her chest puffing out as she straightened out her shoulders.

Putting on some sort of act. Micky arched an eyebrow, doing his best to look disapproving of her actions. Without a spoken word between the two, Beth gently punched Micky in the side, laughing.

"Come on, you can't judge me!" Beth countered, "Coco has told me about all of your silly personas."

Micky brought his hand to his chest, hoping that it looked as if he had just heard one of the most scandalous things ever to have been uttered by another human being.

"How dare she!" Micky exclaimed in the most shocked voice he could muster. "Coco must know that those little humorous personas were personal!"

Micky emphasised the word personal, speaking to Beth in a hushed whisper, as if Beth were attempting to blackmail him or something. For a moment, a brief period of silence followed, before both parties cracked up, the laughter spilling from their lips and mingling in the space between them.

"Come on then," Beth wiped away the sparse tears that had formed in the corner of her eyes, having laughed so much she had almost started to cry. "Let's go check out."

Micky nodded his agreement and the two made their way out of the aisle, towards the checkout counter. There was a line that consisted of four people in front of them, so they waited patiently. Micky kept looking down at the photo album, wondering what sort of pictures he'd be putting into this one. Would Peter's funeral show up in this one? Perhaps Micky's first hospitalization might make an appearance. God only knew, frankly, what would happen in the near future and god only knew what sort of photos would end up being displayed in this album.

"We're up," Beth's sudden whisper broke Micky out of his thoughts.

His head jerked up and he saw that he needed to move up in line, it was his turn to be taken care of by the cashier. Beth's arm ghosted against Micky's elbow, urging him forward on numb legs. The man behind the counter smiled at Micky, asked how he was. Micky didn't reply and Beth told the man that they were good. The man nodded and scanned the photo album.

"Will that be all today?" he asked as he deposited the album into a plastic bag.

"Yeah," Micky mumbled, handing over the money and taking the bag.

He didn't wait for change nor did he wait to see whether or not Beth was following him. Micky just walked right out of that store. His thoughts were occupied with the looming, and honestly overwhelming, task of having to tell Peter he had AIDS. That would be tomorrow, or the next day at the latest. Either way, it would be soon. And it wasn't as if Micky was having second thoughts about telling Peter. He'd tell Peter. It was just the fact that Micky didn't want Peter to hate him for getting it, hate himself for giving it to Micky. The anxiety sent chilling fingers throughout Micky's body, making him feel as if it were around ten degrees colder than it actually was. He shouldn't be thinking about any of this right now. Now was not the time to think. Stop thinking about it, Micky told himself. Stop thinking about it. Stop it.

"Hey, Micky, wait up!" Beth's voice seemed distant for a moment.

She bumped clumsily into Micky, hurting his shoulder just a little. Her hand was clenched into a fist and upon catching up to Micky, who at this point was just waiting beside Beth's car, she opened her hand. In her palm were a few quarters.

"You forgot your change," Beth explained, moving her open palm closer to Micky.

Micky grabbed the quarters and shoved them into his pocket.

"Thanks," he said.

Beth shot Micky a quizzical look but Micky ignored it. Frowning, Beth unlocked her car and Micky quickly took his place in the passenger's seat. Beth clambered into the driver's seat and started up the car.

"Say, Micky, everything alright?" Beth asked as she pulled out of the parking lot.

Micky tightened his grip on the plastic bag in his lap, wondering if he should tell Beth. Everything wasn't alright and he had just reminded himself of that in the store, staring at that stupid photo album. Why had he thought about Peter dying? Thought about himself being hospitalized? What had been the point, besides making himself desperately upset? But he hadn't told Coco yet. How could he tell Beth if he hadn't told Coco? Hell, he hadn't even told Peter yet. But he was in a sort of crisis, a sudden moment where Micky needed the stability of another human being. He was weak. Far too weak for his own good.

"N-no," Micky mumbled, trying to prevent himself from saying anything more but the words sort of seemed to just tumble out of his mouth on their own accord. "I found out I-I have it, about a week ago. I've only told Mike and Davy, and now you, I guess, fuck. Fuck I… everything's just falling apart."

Micky leaned his head back against the headrest behind him, eyes screwing shut in an attempt to hold off the tears. There didn't seem to be enough air in Beth's car and Micky's stomach lurched at the realization of what he had just done. Coco didn't know. Coco couldn't know, not yet. No one could know yet, Micky wasn't ready for anyone to know. It was bad enough Mike and Davy knew. God, how did Peter seem so calm going through this? Sure, he had been a wreck, but when it came to telling people, Peter had seemed to have it together. And then here was Micky, hardly able to tell his own damn partners about his diagnosis. Here he was spilling his guts to his sister's girlfriend, instead of his own damn sister. And he hadn't even said AIDS. He had just said 'it', such a vague description. God, what was wrong with him? Various emotions threatened to take a hold of Micky. Various thoughts threatened to flood into his mind. Everything seemed to be happening all at once and Micky could hardly handle things one at a time. Micky physically felt Beth glance at him, her eyes quickly returning to the road as she headed towards the pad. Micky knew that Beth knew that Micky hadn't told Coco. She was going to be upset that Micky hadn't told Coco yet. She'd lecture him, maybe shout a little or something. Maybe Micky would shout a little right back at her. God only knew.

"Fuck, man," Beth sucked in a shaky breath, "That's some heavy shit."

That's all she said. Micky waited, his muscles tense and his eyes still shut, as if that would protect him from whatever would happen next. But nothing happened. There was just silence, not even the radio was on. Micky tentatively opened his eyes. Beth was just staring straight ahead at the road. She flicked on her turn signal and took a left.

"Yeah," Micky nodded his head in agreement. "Heavy's an understatement."

"When are ya gonna tell Coco?" Beth asked after a moment.

She seemed hesitant, almost as if she didn't really want to ask. Micky wondered what was going on inside her head. What was she thinking about?

"I'm telling Peter this weekend, after our little ceremony, or whatever it is," Micky replied, "Then I'll tell Coco on Monday or sometime soon after the weekend. Then probably my parents the same day. Then… I don't know. A few guys, I guess, just so they can get tested if they haven't already."

Micky thought about the six guys he'd have to eventually call. He'd been putting that off simply because he wanted to tell Peter first before anyone else, minus Mike and Davy, and now Beth. But it didn't truly matter for Peter whether or not Micky had AIDS. It wasn't as if Peter could get AIDS again. The reasoning behind Micky's decision didn't make much sense but the brain could justify anything given enough time. Which is precisely what Micky's brain had done, justifying that Peter had the right to know first, before a couple of guys from Micky's past.

"She's going to be devastated," Beth sounded far away, as if she were caught up in her own thoughts.

Micky's stomach dropped. The image of his sister's face, blotchy and puffy as she sobbed, came into his mind. Already Micky knew that the news was going to crush Coco. She'd seen men go through this, was witnessing Peter go through it, was witnessing Micky watch his lover die, and now she'd have to watch her own brother die. The thought of his parents' reaction to this news only added to the sickening feeling that was overcoming Micky, causing a sudden wave of nausea. For a moment, he thought he might have to ask Beth to pull over, but the feeling quickly passed.

"I know," Micky managed to say, although he wasn't sure if he sounded perfectly fine or if he had spoken in a strangled cry. "You have to promise not to tell Coco until I do. She has to hear it from me."

Beth flicked on her turn signal again, this time turning right. Micky realized they'd be at his home very soon, in about six minutes, give or take a second.

"I promise I won't tell her anything till you do," Beth said, "I'm really sorry, Micky. Maybe things will work out. I dunno. One way or another, things will be okay."

Micky stared at the road ahead of them, watching as the car seemed to eat up the asphalt. The sudden waves of emotion seemed to give way to an almost crippling numbness. Had Peter ever felt like this at some point?

"Thanks, Beth," Micky said.

They both stared straight ahead, Micky feeling numb and Beth focusing on driving. A few minutes passed and finally Beth pulled up into Micky's driveway. She put the car in park and unlocked the doors.

"Thanks for taking me shopping, Beth," Micky hesitated for a moment, glancing over his shoulder almost as if to check if the coast were clear. "I had a really nice time. Thanks for… listening to me."

Beth offered Micky a smile, her eyes lighting up and her nose scrunching up a little.

"Well, thank you for making photo album shopping so entertaining," she beamed.

Micky got out of the car, closing it behind him as he got out. He said goodbye to Beth with a wave, who returned the gesture in the same fashion. Micky watched her drive away, wondering how Coco had found such a cool girlfriend. He wondered about the future, what it had in store for him and his lovers. For his sister and her lover. For his parents. For himself. The future seemed like such a looming, intimidating thing, like a monster in some sort of fantasy novel. The future was the big, bad, dark evil Thing that Micky would have to defeat to save the entire world. HIV/AIDS was it's grotesque accomplice or henchman or whatever, like a goblin or something. But unlike a fantasy story, Micky wouldn't get a happy ending. Even if he survived, Peter wasn't likely to. And even if Micky had the chance to grow old with Davy and Mike, it wouldn't be the same without Peter. It'd be a bittersweet sort of ending, one that wouldn't satisfy Micky if he were actually reading such a story in a book. Micky liked happy endings, endings where everyone got what they wanted and the bad things were defeated. But this wasn't a story, Micky reminded himself. This was his life and life didn't always end as neatly and as happily as it did in stories. With a heavy sigh, Micky went into the pad, photo album clutched to his chest as if it were a shield and a smile on his face as if it were a sword.

Taking a naps weren't really Mike Nesmith's thing, but he'd do anything for Peter. About half an hour ago, Peter had complained of being tired but had declared that he didn't want to sleep anymore that day.

"God, why can't I just stay awake? Aren't I rested enough? All I do is fucking sleep!" Peter had snarled, fists slamming against the kitchen table.

He was in a mood. Mike didn't like it when Peter got angry like this and it was beginning to happen more frequently as the young bassist grew more frustrated with his situation. Mike certainly didn't blame him but his attitude only added more stress for everyone. And this time Mike had to handle Peter alone. Micky and Davy had gone up with Coco, Beth, and John to the cabin in order to set up for the ceremony that would be happening in two day's time. That left Mike in charge of keeping an eye at Peter for the set-up day and then actually driving Peter up to the cabin. So it was up to Mike to soothe his friend.

"Alright, then, shotgun," Mike had said, "You can humor me and take a nap while I take one too. So I won't feel weird 'bout sleeping around during the daytime."

At first, Peter had been hostile towards Mike, claiming that Mike was treating him like "some sort of fucking toddler" but eventually he caved in and accepted Mike's terms. As long as Mike was taking a nap too, Peter could take a nap. And so Mike had settled down on the couch while Peter settled himself down in his bed. Of course, that was half an hour ago now and Mike still hadn't gotten himself to fall asleep. All he was really doing was lying on the couch with his eyes closed. It was sort of nice and relaxing, Mike had to admit, but it was still very boring. But as long as Peter got his rest, Mike didn't really care if he was wasting his time. A couple more minutes passed and Mike figured he'd "napped" long enough. Getting up as quietly as he could, so as not to wake Peter in the other room, Mike beelined for the kitchen. But something gave him pause. The sliding door that lead to the back porch was ajar. If someone had broken in, Mike would have heard them. Already knowing what had happened, Mike popped his head into Davy and Peter's room. Peter's bed was empty.

"That sneaky son of a bitch," Mike swore under his breath.

When had he snuck out of his room? How quiet could the bastard be? It almost made Mike laugh. To prove his assumptions, Mike walked out onto the back porch, making sure to shut the sliding door behind him, and peered down at the beach. Sure enough, he immediately spied Peter standing near the water's edge. It looked as if it were out of a holiday postcard. Peter, a lone figure standing along the beach. L.A. could use that as some sort of promotional gig. If only Micky were here to take a picture of this. It was nearly four o'clock, which meant in another few hours it'd be getting dark. Mike decided he'd go down and bring Peter back to the house. Trying to hide his amusement, Mike made his way down the stairs that consisted of their beach access and causally went down to where Peter stood.

"Hey, I thought you were napping," Mike said in way of greeting.

Peter turned to give Mike a look that, for a moment, flashed with anger but quickly softened to something much more gentle. Mike wasn't entirely sure what emotion that was but he was relieved to see that Peter didn't seem to be in one of his more bitter moods. That made things a lot more easy.

"I was napping for a bit," Peter sighed, "But I couldn't really fall asleep. So I came out here, just to think a little and be alone for a moment. Doesn't look like you could sleep either."

Peter kicked at the wet sand beneath his feet, causing some of it to collide straight into an oncoming wave. A gull screamed overhead as it darted away, out towards the sea. It must have caught Peter's attention because Mike noticed the bassist intently watching the creature fly away.

"Yeah, I'm not a nap sort of guy," Mike ran a hand over his head.

There weren't a lot of people out on the beach this late in the day, but Mike heard the distinctive shout of children far off in the distant. Perhaps there was a family somewhere down the shore, playing in the water. Maybe they had a dog.

"Mike, are you afraid of death?" Peter asked.

The question froze Mike to the spot. He hadn't anticipated something like that from Peter, at least not right now and not like this. It also made Mike's skin crawl, as if Peter was gearing himself up to face death any minute now. But he also knew that Peter wouldn't be asking him something like this just out of the blue. He probably had thought it over quite a few times and had come to the conclusion that he could trust Mike. They could have an honest, open discussion rather than something else. Micky would have ignored such a question, brushing it off as best as possible. Davy might have tried to answer, but ultimately Mike imaged that Davy was a little too sensitive right now to handle such a question. Which left Mike and Mike realized that Peter must have come to this very same conclusion.

"Uh, well, I'm not sure," Mike admitted, "I think it's normal to be scared of dyin', like it's just in our nature as people to be scared of it. I ain't all that scared, I suppose, long as… long as I lived a life I could say I was proud of."

Was that the right thing to say? Even though it was relatively cool outside, a nice breeze blowing in from the sea, Mike began to feel sweaty. Maybe he hadn't said the right thing. It was a sensitive topic after all and he really didn't want to mess up anything right now. He waited anxiously for Peter to say something, to confirm whether or not he'd said the right thing.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Peter nodded his head, as if he were agreeing with Mike. "I… I'm scared."

Peter kicked another clump of wet sand into the ocean, an oncoming wave sucking it in.

"Like I said, there ain't nothing wrong with that. Everyone's scared to die. It's natural, almost," Mike said, brushing his fingertips against Peter's hand.

In one swift motion, Peter interlocked their fingers together. Mike prayed his palms weren't really sweaty. The last thing Mike needed was for Peter to be grossed out by Mike's sweaty palms.

"Do you think I lived a life I could be proud of?" Peter asked, his voice very quiet.

It wasn't an odd quiet, though. It was more as if Peter were lost in his own thoughts, articulating only half of what he was thinking in that moment.

"Of course ya have, shotgun!" Mike immediately responded, "You helped start our band. You've done those protests. You helped Micky bring us all together. I could go on about the good you've done in your life, without really having to think hard about it."

"Thanks, Michael," Peter glanced over at Mike, giving him a half-smile.

It was nearly surreal, hearing Peter call Mike by his full name. There were really only two people who called him 'Michael': John and Mike's father. It was nice hearing Peter call him Michael. It felt right, just like when John said it. Hearing Peter call him Michael reaffirmed that his full name wasn't all that bad, even though it was still ruined thanks to his father's usage of the name.

"I'm here for you, Peter," Mike replied, "We all are."

"I know," Peter nodded, "I know. I'm very grateful."

Mike squeezed Peter's hand, hoping to reassure him with such a simple motion. It didn't seem enough yet at the same time, it felt just as important as some huge gesture might. A feeling of peace had settled upon the guitarist. He wondered if Peter felt the same sort of calm, standing here next to him. If Peter did feel the peace that Mike was feeling, would he feel just as peaceful when Micky told him about his diagnosis? The thought made Mike's insides twist with an unidentifiable, uncomfortable feeling. With the peace nearly gone, all Mike felt was a weird, almost skin crawling uncomfortable feeling. Mike felt awful and the worst part was the fact that Mike had felt this way before.

"Hey, Peter?" Mike tentatively said.

"Yeah?" Peter picked his feet out of the sand so that he was standing on the sand instead of sinking into it.

"I'm really sorry about everything I said to you… when you first told us that you had AIDS," Mike could barely get himself to speak above a whisper.

It was almost as if it were painful to say what he was saying. Most of him didn't want to say anything. Don't bring this up, his mind was screaming at him. Why would he bring this up now, of all times? Why? It didn't make any sense. But… it did, didn't it? He had to bring it up because he still couldn't forgive himself. Those words still hung in the back of Mike's head, haunting him like ghosts or, more accurately, demons. With all these conflicting emotions whirling inside of him, Mike didn't register the fact that Peter was laughing, not at first. It took him a moment to realize that Peter had let go of Mike's hand, so that he could hold his sides. He was doubled over with laughter.

"What's so funny?" Mike frowned, confused as to why Peter was suddenly in hysterics.

What had happened? Had Mike missed something?

"Sorry, sorry," Peter wheezed, wiping away a few stray tears. "It's just that, out of anything you could have said just then, I was not at all expecting you to bring that up. I dunno. I… it's just really funny."

Mike looked at Peter, who looked right back at him. His face was lit up, smile shining like the sun and laughter still trickling out as he tried to compose himself. Somehow, it almost made Mike feel worse.

"It's not funny," Mike pointed out, feeling at a loss for words.

"I know, I know it isn't, it's not suppose to be," Peter nodded his head, "I… Mike, I forgave you already. You don't have to apologize for something you already said sorry for."

"No, I do," Mike snapped, "I…. it wasn't right of me. And I ain't never gonna atone for that sin."

"Sin? God, sometimes you're so antiquated," Peter rolled his eyes, grabbing onto Mike for support as he started to laugh again.

"This ain't funny, Peter!" Mike insisted.

Why was he laughing? What was so funny? Peter should not be laughing right now! Mike's reaction only seemed to make things worse, as it triggered another round of hysterics. Mike opened his mouth to say something to him but hardly got to start the first sentence. A relatively large wave came crashing to the shore, the water swelling up to Peter and Mike's ankles. Peter must have lost his footing due to the shifting sand beneath his feet, since the blonde's grip on Mike increased. This only lead him to pull Mike down to the ground with him. They clung to each other like nearly drowning rats as the force of the wave attempted to drag them out to sea. But it hardly dragged them a foot. Peter was still laughing as Mike scrambled to his feet, pulling Peter up with him.

"Come on, ya big dummy," Mike grumbled as he hauled Peter's ass back to shore.

He might have sounded grumpy but Mike was beginning to find this whole situation almost as funny as Peter did. But he wouldn't give Peter the satisfaction.

"Oh god," Peter wheezed, "You should have seen your face!"

"My face? You were the one who looked like he pissed his pants," Mike hit back.

"I did," Peter said with a suddenly dead serious face.

Whether it was meant to be serious or not didn't matter, not in that moment. The sudden shift broke Mike and he snorted in his attempt to stifle his laugh. He lightly shoved Peter, who hit him in the shoulder in return.

"What, do ya think you can take me on?" Mike raised an eyebrow.

"Of course I can," Peter puffed his chest out before he pounced on Mike.

The suddenness of the action caused Mike to fall to the ground. He gripped Peter's shoulders and rolled over, even as Peter attempted to push against Mike's movement. This ultimately pinned Peter to the ground. The blonde began to kick at Mike's back, thrashing his body underneath the guitarist in an attempt to dislodge Mike from his position of power on top. It was no use though. Peter was too weak to do much against Mike. This realization came to Michael and he felt a pang of sadness. Grinning broadly, he rolled over again, so that Peter was on top of him.

"Hey, don't cheat!" Peter exclaimed.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mike lied.

"You're letting me win," Peter said, looking almost as if he were pouting.

Mike could feel sand everywhere. In between him and Peter, in his face, on his face, in his clothes. They were surrounded by sand and the ocean waves were crashing. Deafening. Sea birds were screaming, cawing. Peter was on top of him, smiling down at him. The setting sun circled his head, making it look as if Peter were wearing a crown made of light. He looked like an angel that God had sent. An overwhelming feeling of love and admiration overcame Michael. It was so sudden that Mike nearly found himself crying. There was the man he loved, sitting on top of him and wearing a golden circle around his head. There was the man he would be losing soon.

"I love you, Peter, I really do," Mike said.

It sort of just slipped out. At first, he wasn't even sure if he had actually said the words aloud. But then Peter said, "I love you too, you silly old queen", before leaning down and pressing their lips together. The kiss lasted ages and seconds, all at the same time. It was a kiss filled with love and sand, the last part not being all that pleasant. After they parted, Peter flopped down beside Mike. Mike turned his head so that he was looking directly at Peter. The other man had his eyes shut and he was yawning.

"You tired now?" Mike asked.

"Mmm, yeah," Peter nodded, a smile still spreading itself across his face.

"Well, let's get you to bed, mister," Mike said, standing up and brushing as much sand off of himself as he could.

"Alright," Peter stood up, doing the same thing, only Mike aided him.

Then an idea occurred to him. Without warning, Mike scooped Peter up in his arms. He had expected Peter to be heavier, knew that Peter should be heavier. He was far too light weight. Far too easy to carry. But he couldn't think about that right now.

"Hey, ah, what are you doing?" Peter exclaimed, arms instinctively wrapping themselves around Mike's neck in order to support himself.

"I'm going to carry you back to the pad," Mike announced as he started to walk towards the staircase that lead back to their house.

"Fuck, Mike, please put me down!" Peter said, "You'll trip or something, we'll both die."

"Nonsense," said Mike, still determined in his mission, "Just think of me as your personal Superman."

"Michael Nesmith, you put me down this instant!" Peter demanded but Mike decided to ignore him.

"Just enjoy it, won't you," Mike rolled his eyes as he began to climb the stairs.

As he made his way up them, Peter didn't say anything and eventually, as Mike was nearing the end of his slightly hard journey up the stairs, Peter's head was snuggled into the crook of his shoulder. Mike wanted this moment to never end. He wanted to live here, in this hour, for as long as he possibly could. But he knew that it would end. So he'd enjoy what he could while it lasted.


	17. Chapter 17

It was finally the day and Davy couldn't quite seem to wrap his head around it. It felt as if it had been ages since Mike had first suggested this little vow ceremony, or whatever it really was. Davy felt as if it had no name for him personally while Mike viewed it as more of an unofficial wedding ceremony. How Micky viewed it was a mystery to Davy but he did know that the drummer was so excited, he was almost bouncing right out of his skin. The whole atmosphere of that morning had been a welcome relief. After such a depressing few weeks with Peter in the hospital, things seemed to finally be looking up for them. Davy only hoped that Peter would feel the same way when he found out what was happening today. He still had no clue. They had spent yesterday just relaxing. Davy had gone hiking with John, Mike, and Coco while Micky, Beth, and Peter had stayed home. Micky and Beth had made dinner that night, chicken with beans. In return, Davy had enlisted Mike to help him cook breakfast.

They'd made french toast. It seemed fancy enough for a special occasion. Everyone except for Peter had seemed very excited that morning. As everyone started to get ready in secret, Peter had crawled over to the couch in the living room and had promptly fallen asleep. Now it was finally time to get on with the ceremony. Coco, Beth, and John were probably already waiting for them outside in the back yard. Micky, Davy, and Mike were in the room that Mike and Davy were sharing. Davy had been impressed at how many rooms John had been able to fit into a relatively small cabin. There were about four bedrooms, two baths, a kitchen, and a living room. It was really beautiful honestly. It was the perfect place to hold the ceremony. Davy glanced at his hair in the full-length mirror that was attached to the back of the door. It looked horrid and he ran his comb through it again.

"Christ, Davy, will you stop that?" Micky grumbled, straightening the bow-tie he was wearing.

Davy glanced at his two lovers. They had all dressed differently. Mike had opted for the classic black suit and tie. He was the only one who looked at all respectable and frankly Davy found it quite a turn on. Mike looked like a real glamorized professional. Micky on the other hand looked like a clown. Not literally, though, thank god. He was wearing his leather pants, in fact he and Davy were matching. Micky had forced Davy to wear his pair of leather pants, claiming that Peter would find it "really funny". Davy had reluctantly agreed to this, a fact that he was now regretting. Besides the pants, Micky was wearing a pair of rainbow suspenders and a black bow-tie. No shirt. His hairy chest was visible for all to see. Then there was Davy. As mentioned, he was donning matching leather pants and a free flowing white shirt. It was something Davy had worn a lot in the 70s and hadn't worn in a while, so he thought now would be the perfect time to bring the look back. Plus, Micky had already pigeon holed Davy into a weird sort of outfit with the leather pants and Davy figured that top would be the best thing to wear.

"Stop what?" Davy feigned ignorance.

"You're going to comb yourself bald!" Micky gestured wildly at Davy's comb.

Davy stuck his tongue out at Micky in response. The nerve of the man. Micky retaliated in a similar fashion.

"Your hair looks great," Mike added, almost as if to counteract Micky's comment, seemingly oblivious to Micky and Davy's childish antics.

Davy looked at himself once more in the mirror and sighed. It still looked horrid. Didn't it have to be perfect for what would be happening in just a few minutes? Nevertheless, Davy wasn't going to get it looking any better and so he put the comb down onto the nearest surface. Turning back to his soon-to-be life partners, Davy fiddled with the zipper to his pants. Had these things shrunk? They were supposed to be tight, but god it was almost as if his balls couldn't breath.

"Are we ready then?" Davy asked.

Impatience was beginning to take a hold of him. He wanted to get the whole thing started right now, right here. Just holler for Peter to get in here and they could do it in secret. But he wanted Coco, Beth, and John to be there for this, as their witnesses.

"I'm so happy I could cry," Micky said, this comment being the only response he offered.

Davy caught him looking in his direction, a broad grin dominating his face. Micky looked ridiculously happy and Davy couldn't help but feel the exact same way. Davy returned the smile Micky was offering him.

"Well let's try to keep it together for just a few more minutes," Mike advised, placing a hand on Micky's shoulder, almost as if that would ward off any tears.

"Davy, go get Peter then. Me and Mike will go make sure Coco, Beth, and John are ready," Micky instructed.

Finally! Davy wasn't sure if he could wait any longer.

"Alright, sounds good," Mike nodded.

Davy let Mike and Micky exit the room first, the feeling of excitement still buzzing throughout his body. He still couldn't believe this was happening. He couldn't believe that Mike had suggested this. It was probably one of the best ideas the Texan had ever had. Or maybe Davy was just too into the idea to judge that sort of thing accurately. As Micky and Mike beelined for the backdoor, eager to get everything started, Davy made his way into the living room. He found Peter awake, sitting on the couch. The television was on and a news anchor was talking about an increase in the prices of gas. For a brief moment, Davy wondered if Peter hadn't been able to find anything good to watch. Had he settled for the news or did he really have an interest in current events? But that didn't matter, not right now. They could always watch television later that evening.

"Hi, Peter," Davy greeted, standing close to the couch but deciding not to sit down.

It'd be quicker just to ask Peter to follow him rather than sit down for a moment. At first, Peter glanced casually over towards his lover but then did a double take.

"What are you wearing?" Peter frowned, eyes fixated on Davy's pants.

He sounded like he was trying to hold back a laugh. For some reason, Davy felt himself blush. He felt oddly embarrassed for wearing leather pants. They were essentially getting married, right? Why had he let Micky talk him into wearing leather pants?! There was no turning back now though, Davy reminded himself. He was in it to win it at this point.

"Well, the guys and I have a surprise for you out back," Davy said, feeling sheepish.

He didn't want to give it all away but he also didn't want Peter to worry. Damn Micky and his weird ideas. Peter looked at Davy with concern in his eyes, although it wasn't one of true concern. It was more in line with the concern one might feel towards a family member who had recently taken up the habit of wearing a clown costume everywhere they went. Concerned but ultimately amused.

"The surprise doesn't involve leather, does it?" Peter asked.

Davy couldn't hold back his laughter.

"Just come out back with me and see for yourself," Davy offered Peter his hand, "Micky and I are matching."

Peter arched an eyebrow yet took Davy's hand nonetheless. Davy pulled the bassist up to his feet.

"I better not regret this," Peter said as Davy lead him towards the back of the cabin.

"I hope you don't regret it either," Davy agreed.

Hand in hand, the two lovers exited the cabin through the back door. In the back yard, which was essentially just the woods, there were two large trees that were relatively close together. A strand of white christmas lights were strung up between the two trees, making a little archway. Standing beneath the archway were Micky and Mike. Standing on the left of them were Coco, Beth, and John. Coco had the biggest smile on her face and her mascara was running a little. She was clinging onto Beth, who also looked very pleased. John looked very proud and Davy noted that he was only really looking at Mike. Upon seeing Davy and Peter, Micky waved almost violently.

"What is this?" Peter frowned as Davy lead him underneath the archway.

"Your surprise!" Davy beamed, mentally crossing his fingers.

He felt so excited and happy that he thought his heart might leap right out of his chest. He didn't want Peter to be disappointed.

"I don't understand," Peter looked up at the lights then at each of his partners, a look of wonder in his eyes.

"We're having a vow ceremony, like a marriage or something, just to say that we'll be together for as long as we all live," Davy explained, wondering if he was doing it justice or explaining it right. "And then some, of course."

After all, he hadn't been the one to come up with the idea so Davy was unsure whether or not he was explaining it right.

"It was Mike's idea!" Micky piped up, nudging Mike in the chest with his elbow.

It was almost as if Micky had read Davy's mind. He watched as Mike's face turned red.

"It ain't like a marriage, not really. It's just to repay ya for the bracelets. So we all have something to bind us together, or whatever," Mike shrugged.

"Like a marriage!" Beth hooted, hands cupped around her mouth.

Micky shot Beth a playful glare which only made Coco laugh. John didn't seem to find it so amusing and it only made Mike turn a darker shade of red. Davy felt a little bad for the poor guy. He seemed really embarrassed by this, although Davy wasn't sure why.

"Oh my god," Peter's breath hitched and Davy turned to see a misty quality to his eyes, "You guys look ridiculous."

There was laughter in his voice, he was getting emotional. The feeling of love and admiration swelled up inside of Davy.

"I'll have you know, only Micky looks deranged," Davy defended himself.

As if only to emphasise this, Micky pulled his suspenders away from his shoulders only to let them snap back into place with a loud smacking noise. This only caused Peter to actually laugh and Davy spied Mike hiding a smirk.

"Well, we are matching, Jones," Micky pointed out.

"Get a room!" Coco shouted.

"Yeah, are we going to be here for another ten years?" Beth added.

Davy saw John chuckle at that. It was in this moment that Davy realized John's appeal for Mike. He was a really quiet man, just like Mike. Peter had a huge smile on his face, one to match each of the others. He looked beautiful, even though he was still in his PJs. They were all dressed a little odd and Davy thought that seemed fitting.

"What do you say, Peter? Wanna do this?" Micky asked, holding out his hand towards Peter.

Davy's heart nearly stopped as he watched Peter hesitate for a moment. It had never occurred to him that Peter might turn this moment down. Davy knew that none of them had thought about that option. Glancing over towards Mike only confirmed this. His brow was creased with worry. But fate seemed to be on their side. Peter quickly took Micky's hand and stepped a little closer to the other two, Davy following suit almost, just so he didn't feel as if he were too far away from the others.

"Of course I do," Peter laughed a little.

Mike handed out the little golden rings they had purchased for this day. They each got one. The little circle seemed to be complete now and Davy heard Coco sniffling. Finally, it was time. Actually time.

"Alright," Mike cleared his throat, "Since I was the one to come up with the idea, I'll be the one to go first. We'll go counter clockwise."

Beth clapped her hands together. John and Coco joined in and Mike waited for their applause to fade away. Why had they started clapping? Davy didn't waste too much energy wondering why, maybe it was just so they could feel included. It all seemed rather intimate, after all. Mike straightened himself out and turned himself so that he was facing Micky. Coco, Beth, and John quickly silenced themselves. All attention was turned to Mike. Davy waited with baited breath.

"Okay," Mike nodded, fidgeting a little, "Okay. Today, with our witnesses and in the name of the good Lord, I'd like to vow my fidelity and love to Micky Dolenz, Peter Tork, and David Jones. These men have taught me about myself, about life, and about love. And I'm lucky to have them."

As soon as he finished speaking, Mike took a hold of Micky's left hand and slipped the little ring onto the proper finger.

"I'm ready to commit to these guys," Micky grinned, turning to face Peter, "I mean, they certainly aren't top tier, but I'm not scraping the bottom of the barrel either. I'm ready to say that it's about time I proclaim Michael Nesmith, David Jones, and last but not least Peter Tork as my life partners in crime!"

Micky's little speech caused everyone to laugh.

"Speak for yourself," Peter had huffed playfully after Micky had finished speaking, a grin dominating his face.

"Can't you take this seriously?" Davy jokingly chastised.

"You guys could rob a bank now," John chipped in.

"Yeah, we could tell 'em we have AIDS and they'd probably just hand the money right over," Mike chuckled.

"We'd be great!" Micky exclaimed, taking Peter's left hand and slipping the ring onto the proper finger just as Mike had done to him.

Peter glanced lovingly down at it, admiring how it looked on his finger. It seemed right. Davy could tell Peter was trying to hold back tears of happiness. He certainly couldn't blame him if he cried. Davy himself was almost on the verge of tears. The blonde bassist turned to face Davy.

"I'm so so lucky to have you three," Peter's voice cracked only slightly, "I find it humbling to have the privilege to have you guys as my life partners."

With that, Peter gently took Davy's left hand and slipped the ring onto his finger. It was cold and a shiver ran up Davy's spine. It was a feeling that he couldn't really describe in words. And finally, it was Davy's turn. He beamed at Peter for a moment, then turned slightly so he was facing Mike.

"My grandda, if he were here, would probably make the joke of 'when are you gonna get married to a nice English girl, David?' We'd all have a laugh and he'd probably pat each of you fellows on the back as congratulations," Davy wasn't entirely sure where he was coming from with this but it seemed the right sort of thing to say.

He took Mike's left hand in his.

"I'm glad we have each other. We've been through hell and back, and this only seems right," Davy concluded and then slipped the ring onto Mike's finger.

After that, all four of them just stood looking at one another with stupid smiles on their faces. Coco, Beth, and John erupted into applause and Coco was hooting at them. For a moment, Davy felt dizzy with happiness. Then Micky was pulling Mike and Peter into a hug, a hug that Davy quickly threw himself into the middle of. Later, Beth served them a cake she had baked. None of the guys had realized she had baked a cake for them and it was a wonderful surprise. It was chocolate with white frosting. On top of it, in pink frosting, was written 'Congratulations!'. John served champagne to everyone, although he and Mike split a half bottle of whiskey.

"The country men sticking to their country sensibilities," Micky had commented, although looking back on it, Davy wasn't sure what he meant by that.

Maybe he was drunk. Whatever he had meant had made Mike laugh, so Davy supposed it wasn't an insult at the very least. Coco made a speech after all the cake had been eaten. The only thing it really focused on was embarrassing Micky, which was a feat in itself. By the end of it, Micky had thrown his own two cents in and had helped Coco embarrass himself. It had been a really funny ten minutes, nearly all of them were in tears. Eventually, things started to wind down. Laughter turned to mild conversation and champagne turned to water or juice. Coco and Beth were the first to excuse themselves to bed. They slipped off to their bedroom after bidding everyone a good night. Then John decided to turn it in about fifteen minutes after that. For another twenty minutes, the Monkees just sat around in the living room, talking about nothing in particular. It was getting late and Davy knew that Peter would need his sleep. Even though he didn't appear tired, it didn't mean the man wasn't exhausted. Or maybe Davy was projecting his own exhaustion onto Peter as an excuse to go to bed. Honestly he was bushed and either way it didn't matter to him. He was ready for bed.

"I think I'm going to head off to bed," Davy announced, trying to stifle a yawn.

"Yeah, it is late," Mike nodded, "Think I'll come with you."

Davy glanced at Mike, who was shooting him a knowing look. Christ, he'd nearly forgotten. Davy realized that tonight was the night when Micky was going to tell Peter about his diagnosis.

"We should all probably go to bed," Micky agreed, standing up and turning to offer Peter his hand.

"Okay," Peter sighed, taking Micky's hand and allowing Micky to help him up to his feet.

The bassist seemed almost disappointed, but Davy wasn't entirely sober enough to understand why. How could Davy be more exhausted than Peter? Mike and Davy stood as well, both of them scrambling to their feet. The four of them exchanged goodnights, Davy giving Micky an extra strong squeeze when he leaned in for a hug. He hoped things would go well. God, he prayed silently, please let things go well.

Micky felt heavy, as if his skeleton had suddenly been replaced with lead. Dread and fear knotted up his stomach and his nerves almost had him shaking. A part of him wanted to just gloss over this whole thing. Just don't tell him, Micky, a voice in the back of his head was urging him to do. Tonight's too good of a night to ruin. Do it later. But a much larger part of Micky knew that he had to do it tonight. If he waited any longer, he'd lose the nerve to do it at all. That knowledge didn't make things any easier. It was stupid but Micky couldn't help but feel as if Peter was going to be so disappointed in him. A numb sort of feeling seemed to be replacing the heaviness, causing Micky to feel almost resigned to his fate. As a child, his father had watched Old Yeller with him once and little Micky hadn't understand how they could have shot the dog in the end. Who had that sort of strength?

Granted, he wasn't shooting any dog or person tonight, but in this moment Micky understood how that fictional character had conjured up the strength to shoot that fictional dog. It was an odd memory to suddenly pop into his head and Micky realized he was thinking too much about this. He had to shake off everything, focus on his task. He'd be of no use to anyone stuck inside of his own head remembering rather pointless memories from ages ago. Plus, he was feeling far too many emotions in such a short period of time. It was barely a fraction of a minute. He and Peter had only just entered the room they were sharing. Micky had barely even stepped over the threshold of the room, for God's sake. He had to pull himself together. This was going to happen, whether he wanted it to or not. It had to happen. Peter had a right to know. Armed with the knowledge that maybe everything would work out, Micky sat down on the bed. Peter flopped down beside him, body sprawled.

"Jeez, I can't believe today happened!" Peter exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear, "It was… beyond magical."

"I'm glad you had fun," Micky couldn't help but smile.

Peter propped himself up onto his side, so that he could look at Micky.

"I had so much fun," Peter smirked, as if Micky had made some sort of joke without realizing it. "I mean, I got to declare you and Mike and Davy as my partners. My official partners. What's more fun than that?"

"I dunno," Micky shrugged, struggling to find a way to begin what he needed to say.

He didn't exactly want to dive right into it but perhaps this conversation was more of a band-aid sort of thing. Rip it right off so it'll hurt less.

"Nothing's more fun," Peter seemed to answer himself.

The blonde sat up then and leaned his head onto Micky's shoulder, an arm wrapping itself around Micky.

"I'm so happy right now, Micky," Peter sighed, a content smile on his face.

He tilted his head up and placed a gentle kiss on Micky's neck. Micky had to fight the urge to cry. This isn't what he wanted. He was going to ruin everything for Peter. How could he do this to him, right now of all times? Couldn't he wait till later? Did he have to do this right now?

"Peter, I, um-," Micky's voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. "I have to tell you something."

Peter pulled away from Micky so that he was looking Micky right in the eye. His head was tilted just slightly, an indication that he was waiting for Micky to continue. Micky had his lover's attention now. There was no going back. Pull it off, just like a band-aid. It'll hurt less. It'll be okay. Everything will be fine. Hollow words for a hollow man, right? Get it over with! He's waiting.

"I… well, uh, I have it," tears stung Micky's eyes, "I have it."

He wanted to say AIDS. He could have even said his test results came back positive. Peter, I'm HIV positive. He should have said AIDS. But the word was like a razor. Trying to say it cut up his throat, left him floundering for any sort of verbal communication. The only thing he could manage to say was 'it'. Peter stared blankly at Micky for a moment. He didn't move or give any sort of physical indication that he'd even heard Micky in the first place. Sweat broke out on Micky's forehead. His palms were sweaty too. The feeling of panic threatened to consume him, drown him out and drag him away. Still, Peter didn't do anything. He just kept staring at Micky.

"My, um, the test results came back a few days before you got out of the hospital," Micky went on, guessing that maybe Peter wanted more information. "I, well, I… told Mike. And Davy. Mike, first, obviously. Davy was at the funeral. Then Davy, when he got home, obviously. Obviously."

What were words? Micky 'obviously' didn't know how english worked. He'd said obviously way too many times. What sort of idiot was he? Peter sat back a little, putting his hands behind him to support himself. Finally he had moved but he still hadn't said anything. It was setting Micky on edge. His face revealed nothing and Micky wanted to start screaming. He wanted to cry. Why wasn't Peter doing anything? Saying anything? Then…

"They put you on any medication?"

The question threw Micky for a moment. What was Peter talking about? Medication? Why was he asking about that, of all the things to ask about?

"Um, not yet, I have an appointment coming up though, to discuss options," Micky replied.

Peter laid himself down onto the bed, eyes finally moving off of Micky and up towards the ceiling. Was that going to be it? Was that really all Peter was going to say? Micky felt the urge to yell at him, anger flaring up inside of him for a moment.

"Come here, lay down with me," Peter patted the spot next to him.

"What? I… aren't you going to say anything?" Micky snapped.

Peter patted the bed again.

"Just do it, Micky," Peter insisted.

Grudgingly, Micky laid down next to Peter, laying on his side rather than his back so that he could see Peter. The blonde didn't seem too particularly concerned with Micky's news and it was frustrating. Wasn't he disappointed? Angry? What were they going to do, just go to sleep? As if everything was normal? Was that Peter's plan?

"How do you feel?" Peter asked.

The question wasn't one that Micky had expected. It stopped all trains of thought dead in their tracks. How do you feel. How did Micky feel? It wasn't really a question he'd been asking himself lately.

"I feel… angry. And upset. And scared," Micky finally answered after a moment's thought.

Even then, it didn't feel as if he were accurately describing how he felt. How could he express to Peter the blizzard of emotions raging inside of him? Christ, it was impossible for Micky to even express his own emotions to himself!

"When I told you, god it feels like forever ago, I felt as if the whole world was caving in on itself in slow motion. And, at the same time, nothing was happening at all. That the world was ending while everything also seemed to be getting on with things, me in the middle feeling like everything was falling apart while nothing was changing at all." Peter said very calmly. "I don't know. Does that even make any sense?"

Micky didn't say anything. He wasn't sure whether or not he should agree with Peter. It made sense though. It didn't entirely encompass all of Micky's emotions, but it was pretty close, the closest description yet. But Peter laughed a little, shaking his head before saying, "Anyways. What do you think about that?"

Micky mulled it over some more. He still wasn't sure if he entirely agreed with the caving in part, but on the whole, Micky figured it was a relatively accurate description of how he felt. Maybe not entirely right now, but certainly he'd felt that when he had told Mike.

"Yeah, I… that sums it up," Micky felt himself falter.

The anger he had felt towards Peter had dissipated and it was leaving him with a hollow feeling in his chest. He felt so small and vulnerable. He scooted himself closer to Peter, who wrapped his arms around him. Micky felt, for a moment, safe in Peter's arms. He felt that, if the two of them never moved, maybe no harm would come to him. Peter would protect him. A wave of hopelessness crashed into Micky then and suddenly he started sobbing. It was so sudden that he had to gasp for breath. Micky buried his face into Peter's chest. Peter rubbed his back, his hand moving up and down. It was just like how Micky had rubbed Peter's back, so long ago.

"Shh, it's okay, Micky, shh," Peter was whispering, "I'm here. It's okay."

"It's not okay though. Nothing's okay," Micky wailed.

How could Peter say that? He was dying! Now Micky would be dying too. They were both going to die and there wasn't anything that could help them. Micky couldn't hide behind anything now. Peter knew. Soon, his family would know. Micky had AIDS. Peter had given him AIDS and now they were both going to die and Micky's thoughts were going a mile a minute, he couldn't breath where was the air the sobs were shaking his body and the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth was Peter's strong hand on his back.

"I know it seems like that, Micky, but trust me, everything will be alright," Peter murmured.

He sounded so calm, so sure, as if he knew what he was talking about. It took Micky a minute, but he did eventually realize that Peter probably did know what he was talking about.

"Fuck, Peter, fuck, I'm so sorry," Micky moaned into Peter's chest.

He felt like a miserable fool, a childish mockery of the man he had once been.

"Micky, you don't have anything to be sorry for," Peter said, "You can cry and scream and do whatever it is you need to do. I'll be here for you. So will Davy and Mike. You getting it doesn't change anything, okay? I mean, it was bound to happen anyway. Mike and Davy are next. And everything will still be okay then. I promise."

"I never meant to hurt you like this," Micky continued.

"You aren't hurting me, Micky, you could never hurt me," Peter assured him. "It's my fault you got it anyways. I'm the one who hurt you."

Micky pulled himself away a little, just so that he could look at Peter's face.

"No, don't do that," Micky immediately ordered, "If you hadn't given it to me, someone else would have. I'm not that monogamous, you know."

For some reason, Peter smiled, a soft and small smile, but it seemed oddly right. As if this were what Peter's natural smile was, a hidden gem in a dirty coal mine. Micky was bewildered but it felt almost reassuring to see Peter smiling in this moment. It gave pause to all of the emotions Micky was feeling, allowed him to take a breather for a moment. The threat of new tears subsided, leaving Micky with only the sniffles.

"I love you, Micky Dolenz," Peter murmured, brushing his hand against Micky's cheek.

Micky took it and kissed the back of his hand before laying his head back down onto Peter's chest. Peter wrapped his arms around Micky again, holding him close. Feeling Peter's chest rise and fall had an odd calming effect on Micky. He felt himself relax a little. Peter wasn't upset with him. He wasn't going to leave. Micky wasn't a failure. In this moment at least, he felt as if he truly believed Peter. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe Micky could believe that. As Micky smiled to himself, a few tears slipped down his cheeks.

"I love you, too, Peter Tork."

The End

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Well, that's all folks! This took me half a year, six months, to write and it was the best six months ever. I'm sorry that it took me so long to finally edit & publish the last two chapters, but life got in the way. BUT we are here. Here at the end. I'd like to thank everyone who has read this fic, whether or not you read till the end, and I'd like to give a shout out to all those who have left kudos and comments! I read and treasure each comment I've gotten and it's thanks to you guys that I was able to pull through with publishing these last few chapters. Thank you all so much for putting up with weird posting schedules and like... long breaks in between chapters. This fic is so far the best thing I've ever written and I'm so glad to have had the chance to share it. Once again, if you found this fic good, please let me know, I'd love to know what you think.

Also, if you did enjoy this fic, there may be a sequel coming out sometime in the future (I have plans and am currently in the process of writing the sequel, I'm just not sure if I will publish it).

Again, thank you all so much for giving me this chance to share this story with you all. This was a lot of fun and this is the most important fic I've ever written, probably the most important thing I've written in general as of right now. I hope everyone has a wonderful rest of the day! :)

With love,

Ian-the author


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